Hope Remains
by Magic Crafter
Summary: On the eve of her trial, Anne makes a discovery which changes everything. AU, incomplete.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **I know better than to think this is an original idea, but it was nevertheless begging me to write it. As of right now, I'm not sure how long or short this story will be. I haven't forgotten about _The Shape of Things to Come _or _In Dreams, _I promise. But I just needed something…different to get me out of the writing rut I was in. Review and let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **Showtime owns the series and poor little me is making no money off of this story. Don't sue!

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_All I know is that the end's beginning...  
Let me go and I will run; I will not be silenced.  
All this time spent in vain; wasted years, wasted gain;  
All is lost—hope remains—and this war's not over..._  
- "Shattered," Trading Yesterday

**7 May, 1536  
The Tower of London**

The Queen of England had felt ill for days now, though she had been uneasy and restive since her miscarriage months ago. To think, at the beginning of the year she had thought herself, at last, untouchable. Her longtime menace Katherine, whom some had still insisted on calling "Queen," was dead! And she, Anne—she was not only unarguably the King's true wife now, she was also carrying the Prince of Wales within her womb! Her lord could not possibly lose faith in her this time, she had thought. She was finally going to fulfill her promise and when there was a boy-child in the royal nursery, the whole of England would finally see that she was their rightful Queen. Did they not already adore her daughter, Elizabeth? They would love a prince more fiercely still, especially since he would be a true Englishman!

Yet it was not to be. Henry had not shown much renewed interest in her even after she had revealed her condition, and his neglect was more painful than it had ever been in the past. Anne spent those months keenly aware of how much rode on the outcome of her pregnancy; she knew that it was, in a sense, her last chance. Henry's patience had worn thin over those seven years. He had risked their firstborn being illegitimate because he simply could not wait any longer. They had now been married for three years, and Anne had not made good on her vow, and she knew that her husband was already straying. He must feel betrayed—but so did she.

She hated that he was not content to love her and her alone. She was far younger and lovelier than Katherine. If she lost her temper sometimes, he had only himself to blame. What else about her was not the makings of a Queen? She was graceful and fashionable, a kind mistress to her ladies, a loving mother… yes, sometimes she was not the model wife, but only because he was not a faithful husband. He had not even attempted to appear that way, ever since the birth of their daughter. She was not a boy, no, but how could any father not be proud and pleased to have such a child?

But the day she had found him with Jane Seymour, the little wench, upon his knee—that day had decided her fate. It was so soon after Anne feared she would lose Henry, her King, her protector, the man she loved, the father of her child, to a simple jousting accident, so very soon…and then to find him with her own "servant," a woman who would obviously love nothing more to usurp her place…it had broken Anne's heart. She had told him so, but he had not wanted to hear it at the time. He had been so angry. It made her tremble to think of it. That night, Henry had not cared that she was suffering, to—she had had a child again ripped from her body, another little life which she could have brought into the world and cherished as she cherished Elizabeth even still… He did not care about her pain, physical or otherwise. He could only see through the lenses of his own disappointment.

She had indeed miscarried of her savior, but it was not her fault. It was Henry's. He had all but murdered his own son, and it was because he could not control himself—he could not resist whatever charms mousy little Mistress Seymour offered.

And now…now everything had gone wrong.

She had been arrested five days ago. From all that she could piece together, Anne knew that she was in the Tower for betraying His Majesty, which was treason. Several of her friends and even her brother, were supposedly guilty of committing such acts with her. She could hardly believe it. Did Henry truly believe that she—she who had waited so long for him!—would throw it all away to have a bit of fun, knowing the cost?

Would she put their daughter, the most important thing in her entire world, in such jeopardy?

Some logical part of Anne's mind filled in what her heart simply would not accept. The King no longer loved her, or at least believed that he did not. He was tired of fighting battles for her, tired of waiting, just as he had tired of Katherine, so he was willing to accept anything that would let him escape their marriage. Perhaps he had even asked for a way out, and then of course, a way would be found. Anne knew that all to well. He had found a way out for her sake, though it had come at the price of breaking away from Rome. While she and some others had fervently supported such an action, there were many others in England who saw their souls being put on the line for a woman of "no particular" beauty or breeding. Yet she could prove them all wrong, she could, if only Henry had given her the time.

If she should die, something she was not willing to accept, not yet, Anne had to face the cold, hard truth of the matter. She had dug her own grave in so many ways. She had empowered Henry to take fate into his own hands by encouraging his divorce; she had undermined the security of her position, however, from the first moment of their courtship. Anne was hardly a stupid woman. She knew perfectly well that Jane Seymour had taken a leaf out of her own book to woo the King.

And then there was her own conduct. Even if she still held that much of it was Henry's doing, his own foolishness and selfishness, there were times when she had not acted much like a good wife or queen. Her brother had warned her, of course…but she had ignored him. She had been offended. She could not help but wonder now how things would have differed if she had taken George's advice. Would Henry still care for her as he once had if she had "shut her eyes and endured" what he chose to do, straying from the marriage bed? If she had been kinder and more loving, would she in turn have been more lovable? The questions were useless but nevertheless, they haunted her.

Anne had far from accepted her fate yet. She knew it would take a miracle sent by the Lord himself to reprieve her, but the Lord was good, and she and the others were innocent of everything except her own failing to provide him a son.

All these troubles very well could have contributed to her queasiness, then. There was no reason to complain about her treatment, for it was not poor. She found cruel irony in the fact that she was even now staying in the very chambers where she had slept with Henry the night before her coronation, yes. And yes, she was by turns angry, frightened, sad and lonely, but Sir William and the ladies with which she had been provided-they were all respectful, even kind.

Things changed two days earlier. Anne felt unwell all morning, and when she ate the small breakfast that had been brought for her, she could not keep it down. Yet by midday, she felt well again, if a little anxious. This cycle repeated itself until finally, that morning, she decided that something must be done about it.

"Please fetch Sir William and have him call for a physician at once," Anne instructed. Her voice trembled despite her best effort to maintain the semblance of calm. She wanted to be brave, but so many things had gone wrong and so many things still could that Anne did not know how to cope with all of them.

At first, she half-expected that Sir William would tell her a physician could not or would not be sent to see her, and when the girl returned with the assurance that one would indeed arrive, she had to remind herself that he would not be Dr. Linacre, the court physician whom she had become familiar with after all these years. They sat in silence while they waited. None of the women asked why their mistress needed a physician to attend her and Anne was not going to volunteer her suspicions. If they were incorrect, she would rather it be between herself and this physician, not fodder for future rumors after she was…exiled. Or dead.

It felt like hours had passed before the door finally swung open to reveal Sir William and a second man close behind him. He bowed to her, grim-faced as always.

"A doctor is here to attend to Your Majesty," he announced, motioning to the stranger who also bowed.

She got to her feet at once. Her fingers were laced together so tightly that her nails dug into the flesh of her hands. Her eyes darted nervously from her jailer to the physician and finally she turned her head to look at the women. They all wore bland expressions which masked whatever curiosity they may be feeling. In truth, they were kind enough, but she nevertheless wanted some privacy. If the news was not what she wanted, no, _needed_ to hear…well, she did not want them to see her disappointed.

"Thank you," she said. "Do you think we might…he might attend me alone, Master Kingston?"

The man bowed again, and this time his expression was more sympathetic. "Of course, Your Majesty. Your ladies and I will wait outside…"

Anne's attendants rose automatically, as if some invisible force compelled them. Each bobbed a small curtsy; each murmured an almost unintelligible "Your Majesty" as they filed out of the open door. Sir William was the last. He shut the heavy door and she could hear the key scraping in the lock. It left her with only the physician, and suddenly she was frightened. She did not want to know. This was her only hope. What if he should take it away?

But if it was true, and no one knew…

He bowed once more and smiled warmly, a genuine smile. "Your Majesty, I am Dr. Blackwell. Master Kingston said only that you were experience stomach troubles…?"

The warmth in his smile and in his voice was enough to drive Anne nearly to tears. She nodded. "Yes…I…it has been every morning, sir, for three days now, but I have always felt well again in the afternoon." Did the optimism in her voice sound as desperate to him as it did to her? Could he know what this might mean?

"And your…monthly courses, Your Majesty?"

Anne wrung her hands. She had not paid much attention, not since her dreadful miscarriage, especially not in the midst of the fear and uncertainty which had nearly swallowed her whole during the past few months. Had Henry even come to her bed? Yes, surely. Even he knew that he had a duty, no matter how impatient he was, no matter how tired of her he was… And her courses? What of those? Dear God, they had not come, had they? She would have remembered…she must have remembered…

Slowly, Anne shook her head. "I—I do not think they have come, sir, not for a month at least."

It was such a relief to see this simple, kind English face. It held no mockery or even suspicion. Perhaps this was one of the few subjects who had accepted that the King's first marriage was invalid and that he had a new Queen…or perhaps he was simply willing to do his job without worrying that the woman before him was the Queen of England and that it was likely her fate rested on him. Perhaps that was too extreme, too much pressure to be put on one poor man…but it was how Anne saw things. The pressure was, in truth, on her. If he told her what she suspected was true…oh God. How would Henry receive such news?

"Your Majesty, I will need to…examine you," Blackwell ventured. He was obviously trying to be delicate, and in another circumstance she might have found it amusing.

"Of course." Anne tried to smile. She glanced over her shoulder; the bed. That was where all other such examinations took place. "Of course…" She made it to the edge of the bed on unsteady legs, her hands trembling as they tugged at the laces of her gown to loosen it for him. She finally gave up, however, and sunk down onto the mattress.

Blackwell offered her another comforting, calm smile. "Please lie back, Your Majesty."

Anne closed her eyes. She felt sick, this time from nerves, and could not even find the words in her mind to pray. But surely God knew of her troubles anyway. Surely he would watch over her. Instead of payers, she turned to memories. Behind her closed lids, she was no longer in the Tower, but in the gardens with her daughter-with Henry… the rustle of her gown as she tried to keep time with her husband…the warmth of Elizabeth's little hands against her neck…

"_Please…after everything we've been to each other…" She curled her fingers around his collar, wanting only to keep him there until he saw reason. She loved him so deeply, yet at this moment she was so fearful—of him and of what he might have been told. "After everything we were! Please…"_

_His face was hard, his eyes cold; he was unmoved by this pitiful scene: the woman he had longed to make his own for such a long time, with their beautiful child in her arms, pleading with him from the very depths of her soul. Henry knew her; he knew she was not wont to beg for anything. Yet here she was. And it did not matter to him at all. Not even Elizabeth mattered. Just like Mary, just like Katherine. Was it God's punishment for her past sins? Surely he—and Henry—would have some mercy…_

_She twisted away from him and continued for a few paces, up the stone steps, before she turned and looked at him again. "One more chance," she insisted. "One more." It escaped her lips as a whisper, almost a prayer._

_He stood there as though he was a statue. "Henry…"_

_But then he was coming towards her…maybe… Anne stretched out a hand to stop him when she realized he was about to pass her, but he pushed her away._

_Anne felt her heart breaking. She rushed after him again, stopping to watch him walk away. He would not even turn-he would not even look at her. He would not look at their daughter. Somewhere, somehow, she knew that this would be the last time she would see him. She could hardly bear it. "Your Majesty!" No reaction-not even a pause… "Your Majesty!"_

Please, God…please…

"_Your Majesty, I beseech you!"_

_She hugged Elizabeth more closely to her as her knees gave way. She began to sob, as her daughter hid her little face in her mother's shoulder._

"Your Majesty…my lady…"

The physician's voice interrupted the fading end of that memory. She slowly roused herself. Blackwell stood, hands folded, by the side of the bed. Anne sat up; she was not particularly surprised that the horrors of the past few weeks would be enough to separate her completely from the present. Now, however, she was very much in the present. Those memories would always stay with her, haunting her, but there was little she could do to change what had happened; the only thing she could hope for was to change what might happen now. That depended upon the findings of this physician; there would not be another opportunity for a second opinion. It was all she could do to keep breathing steadily.

"I am very pleased to say that—"

**Whitehall**

"–Her Majesty is with child."

Thomas Cromwell stood in the King's audience chamber. He looked quite pale, even sickly, as he delivered the news that a physician sent to the Queen, imprisoned in the Tower, had confirmed that she was indeed pregnant. It was not good news. It meant that the King was not going to get what he wanted: a quick way out of this marriage. Though he could pass the child off as one of Anne's lovers, Cromwell knew he would not be so quick to make that conclusion. The investigation, which had really been a sham, would have to go more in-depth and Cromwell would have to produce solid evidence. He could hardly torture George Boleyn or the other noblemen—the court would not stand for it—and thus, he knew it was unlikely he would get confessions from any of them…except Brereton, of course, who seemed all too willing to confess.

As for the King, Henry did not know how to accept what he was hearing or how to react. He was tired of this tumultuous marriage. He was tired of Anne. He wanted his angel, Jane, to be by his side as his wife and Queen. Yet he could not do away with Anne if she was carrying a child, no matter whose child it was. The English people would rise up in fully justified anger if they knew…and if they did not, Henry would always have the blood of an unborn child on his conscience.

His unborn child? Or one of her many lover's? George Boleyn's, perhaps? That would make the child an abomination, not fit to be born.

But if it was his child…he could neither execute Anne, no matter how betrayed he felt, nor could he annul their marriage for fear she would have a son. Yet even if it was a daughter, how could he then justify annulling the marriage? This child changed everything. It meant that he may never be able to end this cursed affair; he may never have his beloved Mistress Seymour as anything more than a mistress. It meant that Anne would go unpunished for her betrayal. How she would gloat! She would never let him forget what he had nearly done to her. She would never learn her place.

No, she would learn it, and learn it now. He could hardly execute her, nor keep her locked away forever—but he would keep her there for as long as it took to make sense of this mess. He would not let Anne forget that he was her lord and master again. Let her fear him, as a wife should, especially the wife of a King! Let her hold her tongue.

And if she was guilty—if this child was not his—Henry would not hesitate.

Yes, they would get to the bottom of the matter, even if Henry had to take matters into his own hands. If he never got his Jane, he would know the reason why. And if Anne…if she was innocent, if she carried his child…despite himself, despite all the anger which had been building inside him ever since Brandon had told him, Henry felt a rush of hope. If Anne had not betrayed him, despite how poor of a wife she had been, then there was the possibility that she may give him a son yet. And if that was the case, he would never think of Jane Seymour again. Yet there was no time to speculate yet. He could not forget what he had learned of Anne's conduct unless her name was cleared.

Was it possible that Cromwell and Brandon had lied to him in the first place? Henry had wondered that from the beginning, though he knew that he had been all too willing to believe the worst of Anne from the start. Once upon a time, he had refused to hear a single word against her. Now, things had changed.

His thoughts strayed to Elizabeth. Though she was a "disappointment," since she was merely a girl, what a girl she was! Henry could not deny her brilliance, nor could he help but see himself mirrored in her. The worst part about Anne's betrayal had been facing the possibility that their child was in fact hers with another man's and not his at all. Yet he knew better. He knew she had not slipped away to bed-to bed anyone else, certainly not her brother while they were in Calais. He remembered the night Elizabeth had been conceived poignantly. It had not been so long ago. She was his, she had to be! No matter what other sins Anne had committed, she had at least given him that gift…though in a way, Elizabeth's birth was a betrayal in itself, since she was not the son which her mother had promised him.

Elizabeth was his as much as Mary was. And if there was no question about that-what did that mean now? What did it mean about the allegations against Anne?

"Master Cromwell, I want this physician's account verified at once. Send Dr. Linacre to the Tower," he instructed slowly. Linacre had examined Anne—as well as Katherine—in the past. He would not lie in an effort to save the Queen as some country doctor might.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Cromwell said, bowing stiffly. He turned on his heel, clearly ready to escape.

"Master Cromwell, I did not dismiss you," Henry snapped. "You are also to renew interrogations of all suspects in this matter…including the Queen." The last time he had seen Anne, she had not denied or confirmed anything; she had simply begged him for another chance. He had not wanted to hear it then, and he truly did not much want to hear it now, but he had little choice. He would never rest easy with whichever decision he made unless he knew. He had been so sure before, but now…

"Yes, sire." Cromwell looked truly grim; it was almost amusing, or would have been if it did not make Henry less sure still. Of course, it could be that Cromwell was displeased only because he did not want to see the King's hopes for Jane fall through…but it could, he supposed, also be more than that. He could fear for himself.

Cromwell had nearly reached the door by now. Henry stood up. "Master Cromwell!" he called yet again. He could almost see the man stiffen, either in fear or annoyance.

"Your Majesty?" his voice sounded strained.

"Send Archbishop Cramner to me. I wish to speak to him myself." Whatever else her faults might have been, Henry knew Anne was not an impious woman. She was as dedicated to her beliefs as Katherine had been, though those beliefs were very different, and if she had anything to confess, anything which truly troubled her conscience—such as cuckolding her husband—he felt sure she would have confided in Cramner. And if Cramner valued his own head, and the life of his friend the Queen, he would in turn confide those things in the King.

Paler than ever, Cromwell inclined his head in assent, leaving Henry alone with his very jumbled thoughts.

* * *

Night descended slowly upon London, but the darkness filled Anne's chambers in the Tower quickly indeed. She sat by the high window, too far below it to look out, staring into the fire which had been crackling since well before sundown. A warm hope had begun to spread throughout her whole being since the moment she had heard Dr. Blackwell's pronouncement that she was with child. One hand now rested tenderly against the bodice of her gown. If she miscarried, she knew her life-or at least her marriage-would surely end…but the Lord would not have sent this gift if he meant for her to die, surely. No. She would finally fulfill what she had told Henry she would do so long ago: she would deliver him a son. He would see that she was the only wife and Queen he had ever needed. Somehow, he would see. He would forget about that mouse of a girl, Jane, and return to Anne as his most beloved lady.

"'Here I am,'" she murmured to herself, almost under her breath, "'a servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.'"

A smile tugged inadvertently on her lips. Her ladies all looked up, surprised to hear her voice. She had said nothing to them after Dr. Blackwell's visit, and only after Dr. Linacre had arrived very late to tell her of the King's orders and had examined her himself and confirmed what Blackwell had said did Anne reveal to them the reason for her illness. They had all been, or at least acted, delighted.

Her smile widened a little at their surprise. "From the gospel of Luke," she told them. She was not bearing God's son, but perhaps Henry's, and indeed this would be her immediate savior, though Christ was the eternal one. She felt that the Lord had finally smiled upon her. He would stay with her; he would help her name to be cleared, and return her to Henry's good graces as well as his love. He would not abandon her. She knew Katherine had insisted that God was with her—but Anne had the proof that Katherine had never had.

In seven months, she thought, all of London would at long last cry _Long live Queen Anne!_

And more importantly, Henry would again be hers and hers alone.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **Forgive the shortness, but I really had nothing else to say in this chapter. I feel like this is going to be a dreadfully short story anyway. Also, "Shape" readers, don't forget to vote in the poll on my profile!

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**10 May  
Whitehall**

It was true. It was really true. Jane Seymour felt as though her whole world was caving down around her. Anne Boleyn, the so-called Queen occupying the place poor dead Katherine had defended (and held, in Jane's opinion) until he last breath had almost been out of the way; the crown had nearly been laid aside once and for all, ready to be lifted from the ruins of her fall and placed upon Jane's own golden head. Her father, her brothers, even the King…they had practically promised her that before too long, she would have the King's ring on her finger; she would be in his bed as his lawful wife, and the whole nation would rejoice to be rid of that whore who now claimed the title. After the last miscarriage, it was a surety. Nothing could go amiss in their plans, especially not when it was revealed that the Queen had had other lovers. If that was true, it would be horrible indeed that the King–the King, whom Jane had already taken to calling "Henry" in the intimacy of her mind–had been cuckolded so. And if not…well, sacrifices had to be made. Jane would not turn down the position of Queen. She was no fool, though she knew some such as Anne herself considered her one.

She had begun to plan what her wedding dress would look like; she had imagined what she would do for the Church in England, and more immediately, for the Princess Mary, banished to Hatfield to serve the Queen's bastard child. Oh, yes, little Elizabeth would lose her mother–but Jane had never met the girl they now called the Princess of Wales. She had, however, met the Princess Mary at least once and was fond of the memory of her. She had lost her mother many years ago, long before Katherine had died, really. And it was because of Anne. So why shouldn't one child suffer for the good of many? Obviously there would be no son produced by the womb that had borne that one child. It did not matter what they said about her being bright and lovely and all those things. She was not what the King or the country wanted, nor was her mother.

Except now Jane's certainty had vanished. It had crumbled out from beneath her feet like sand stolen by the tide. She attempted to grasp at something, but the news that Sir John brought to his eldest daughter and his sons was stunning. More than that, it was disastrous.

"Her Majesty is with child, it seems," Sir John said dully. He looked as though he had aged terribly in the space of a day or two. "The royal physician has confirmed it. She is due to return to Whitehall by this evening."

Had the news not been so grim, Jane might have laughed or chided her father for trying to fool her in such a way. Yet she knew that he was doing nothing of the sort. She did not hear Edward or Thomas saying anything. Perhaps they simply had no words for something of this magnitude. Their sister, mere weeks away from being the Queen of England…and now this. Of course, she could have another miscarriage. Suddenly this seemed like the light at the end of the suddenly-dark path Jane found herself walking upon. She looked up at her father as though he would have the solution, as though he could frighten away the monster of truth as easily as he had any other demon from her childhood.

"Perhaps she shall miscarry again. She has not borne any living child for nigh three years now…"

His frown only deepened with the hopefulness of her tone. Jane was fighting to hold on to that hope, however. It may be hideous–but how did they even know the child was the King's? If the Queen was truly the adulterous whore they said she was, the child was not of royal blood and therefore of no consequence even if it was born healthy. The Queen herself would be ruined, sent away in shame–or perhaps executed anyway, once the child was delivered–and her cursed offspring (the child of incest, even?) given to some willing, godly family to be raised in obscurity and forgotten.

"…and even if she does not…the charges…"

Jane could tell by her father's unmoved expression that her hopes were mislaid. Her stomach sunk as though she had swallowed stones. As though she was gasping for air, logged down by water…drowning. Her hopes were being dashed. It _felt_ like drowning. She sat down, flabbergasted, on her own soft bed. The King had insisted she move into fine apartments elsewhere in the palace where he could pay her special–and supervised, of course–visits. _I love you, Jane. You are beautiful, Jane. I want to marry you, Jane._ She had never felt like that before…wanted, needed even. Beautiful indeed, to be sought by a King. She had none of the Queen's striking coloring or exotic looks, what one might call a strange kind of beauty. She was a plain English girl, so often passed over before…she had believed God had smiled upon her at last, no longer to be mousy little Jane Seymour, but someone who truly mattered. The Queen of England…the mother of the next King…

Why had He turned His back on her so suddenly when she could replace this heretical whore, the woman who had surely practiced some foul dark arts to secure the King's love in the first place? When she, Jane, was a dutiful Catholic girl who could restore the Church in England and fight for the Princess Mary?

"Even if the Queen miscarries again, the King will find it much more difficult to rid himself of her this time," SIr John was saying. Jane barely heard him. She did not want to hear him. "He must truly investigate what would have been a case for show more than anything. He wanted to be rid of her desperately before, but now if she is truly carrying his child, he will want the truth. If the truth is indeed that she is innocent of these charges…it could be master Cromwell, even myself and your brothers, Jane, who are in danger of the King's wrath…but the Queen will be untouchable. The English people will be incensed to think she was nearly executed on false charges. And if she should bear him a son…"

Jane did not need him to finish this thought. The English people would forget their hatred easily enough, especially if they learned that Anne was nearly killed for something she did not do…but if she was found guilty, what then? The King could never be sure it was his own child! It would not do to have doubts about the legitimacy of their heir, if indeed the child within her womb was a son! Yet even as she thought these things, Jane wondered if she believed what they said about Anne. She had served only briefly in her household…but did she believe Anne had taken many lovers?

No. Not really. The Queen was, in truth, more intelligent than Jane would ever have a hope of becoming. But there was something in Jane that thought–disturbing as it was to think such things–that Anne might truly love the King. Jane was fond of him, too. She wanted him to continue to make her feel special as no one else had before him. But she had yet to fall in love with him. She supposed that if she did, thinking of another man in a carnal way would be unbearable. And did the same hold true for Anne? She did not know. She did not know how to feel sympathy for her rival, the woman who had hurt so many…she hated her, she wanted her dead. She hated her more than ever for daring to be carrying the King's child–_Jane's_ child!–now of all times, when she was finally finished and cast off. Yet at the same time, if it was not true… _How would you answer to God? To yourself? Would you wish to be that woman, Jane? _Did it matter–would it, to her conscience or to God himself–that Anne was not the kind and virtuous woman that Katherine had been?

It was then that Jane began to cry. They were fat tears that made her fair face turn red and blotchy. "I want to see the King," she whimpered through her tears. She wanted Henry to tell her that it was true. He would understand her confusion. He would tell her…

He would tell her that she had to reenter that woman's service and pretend to be glad that she was going to bear the King's child, at least until the investigation was finished. Would Anne accept her, a snake in the grass? Anne was perfectly aware that Jane would have replaced her. She knew, and Jane knew that much. She had not cared when Anne's days had seemed numbered. Now everything was so suddenly different. Everything had changed. The worst part of it was that Jane no longer seemed to matter. If the Queen was indeed innocent, it hardly seemed to matter whether she finally gave him a son, or any child at all…

"The King has shut himself away with Cromwell and the Archbishop of Canterbury and with Suffolk," her brother Edward said. His voice was flat, a strange quality for someone whose mind was normally working out the detail of some sort of plot or scheme. "But not Boleyn or Rochford, he's still in the Tower…"

So the King's one-time favorites were excluded, at least some of them. The Queen's relatives were still not trusted…especially since George Boleyn had been accused alongside his sister. Looking through her bleary, tear-filled eyes at Edward, Jane shuddered. She could not imagine bedding him, or having even the slightest desire to. Of curse, she had heard that Anne was and always had been far closer to her brother than Jane was to any of her own, but nevertheless…the very idea of such a forbidden relation was too unsettling even to be deliciously scandalous. It was simply disturbing. She hoped for the sake of both their souls that that was one evil Anne had not committed, either as Queen or beforehand.

"Nor with us," his father pointed out grimly.

The King, it seemed, had forgotten .her. He did not want to consult her father or brothers as he had just days ago. He did not want them to advise him in what to do about his troublesome wife, as he had surely once wanted…as he had wanted the Boleyns. No, to him, now, she was simply an afterthought. She might come back into his mind at some point…but would he remember, really remember, that he had been poised to make her his wife, his Queen? Or would she simply fade back into obscurity? Jane dreaded nothing more–forever living her life in the shadows again, when she had come so close. She would know, forever, that she had been on the verge of greatness…and that she had fallen so very, very far.

If she could go to him and remind him, perhaps things would be different. Yet unlike Anne, Jane had no magic child to hold sway over Henry's mind–she had only a promise. And if Anne had not wronged him, it was be she and not Jane who was on the verge of fulfilling that promise…

She did not reply to Edward or their father, but instead continued to shed bitter tears over the unfairness of the world.

* * *

Elizabeth. The name made Henry smile. His beloved mother's name–beautiful, kind, beloved even by a man like his father…a woman who had deeply cared for her children, who had been crushed when her dear Arthur had died…and who had, herself, not survived for much longer. He missed her often and carried her memory close to his heart. For such a long time, that memory had been his only light. He had been forced to remind himself constantly that his father had loved her as well–though he could not truly imagine Henry the Seventh loving anyone, especially not him.

The mother of his only son was also an Elizabeth–Bessie, she was called; Bessie Blount. Lady Blount had been beautiful, too, and placid and accommodating. She had borne him a fine little son, but Fitzroy had died tragically young, and he had never seen the boy's mother again or even asked after the poor woman.

Most immediately and importantly, however, Elizabeth was the name of his younger daughter. As yet, his only child by Anne… Not the longed-for, long-promised son, but another girl-child, a Princess of Wales. A beauty, that's what his Elizabeth would be, he imagined. How could she not be? And a great scholar, for a girl. She was already so brilliant. Truly, her only fault was her sex. If she had been a boy…oh, if only. Henry would not now be facing these questions about Anne. Even if she had been far from an obedient wife and a model Queen, if she had borne him a son instead of this daughter, all would have been well between them. His seven-year quest to end his first accursed marriage would have been proven noble indeed. But Elizabeth–Elizabeth was not a curse, but a blessing. And perhaps soon she would have a brother, a child Henry was convinced now belonged to him.

If he had not been thusly convinced, of course, Anne would not be released from the Tower. Now he had chosen to display mercy. If Anne was wise, she would realize that the investigation had yet to be completed and that her conduct now must be without fault. Of course, if she did indeed carry a son…. _Oh God, if you bless us at last…_ Imagine a boy by Anne, he was already thinking, given what a child Elizabeth was shaping up to be!

Yet it was possible that Anne would disappoint him again. He would have to be patient and kind. The news he had reluctantly received from Cromwell was dire indeed–for that once-trusted man, as well as for his dear Brandon. Believing it was what Henry wanted to hear, they had done all they could to piece together a tale of Anne that would horrify him, disgust him, make him send her away–even execute her–and forget her. But it seemed that none of it was true. They had interrogated all the accused men and only one had stuck to his story. The others had vehemently denied it, even wept…and Anne…Anne had been regal, even dignified, as she contradicted each lie. _I was surrounded by my ladies on this date, Master Cromwell, still unchurched after bearing the Princess of Wales…_ Yes, that sounded like Anne. Did he believe it? Was Cromwell trying to cover up for her, since she now seemed to be carrying the King's child again within her womb? Perhaps. He doubted it, however. He doubted Cromwell was bold enough to lie about the lie, to cover what was the truth with a bigger lie still… If he said the charges were false and they were in fact true, he would jeopardize the throne. And even if Cromwell would do such a thing, Henry knew Brandon–Brandon would never do that.

So now Henry was here, with Elizabeth, waiting to welcome his wife back to Whitehall. Only days ago, he had been imagining life free of her. Jane, beautiful Jane, would be his Queen soon…and now he had not thought much of Jane at all. He lamented that she would not indeed be his wife, but his head was spinning with questions and hopes and fears too numerous to linger much on anyone. He found that the company of his daughter was soothing, however. Her mother may have once (and to some degree still did) heated his blood and made him mad with desire; her child, however, was truly a little Princess. She was calm and well-behaved, sweet and clever. And she simply adored him.

Another girl may have asked–no, demanded–to see her mother, why and from where she was returning…a million questions to which Henry had answers, answers he did not want to give a child less than three years old no matter how precocious. He knew many people thought him heartless for what he had done to Katherine and her daughter. But he loved Mary–he had even loved Katherine once–they had simply crossed him. His love for Elizabeth ran deeply, too, as did his pride in her, though he might never admit it. If her mother had not truly wronged him, why punish her?

Elizabeth, in fact, said nothing about her mother at all. She had to have been informed that the Queen was returning to Whitehall, but she did not bring up the matter with her father, nor ask him if that was why he had come to see her. The heiress to the throne had a remarkable mind for a child so young; it was possible that she knew better than to say such things lest she anger or upset the King. She also loved both her parents dearly; to her they were Papa and Mama before King and Queen.

"Do you like living at Whitehall, sweetheart?" Henry ventured. Elizabeth had been strangely quiet since he had arrived. He was used to her eagerly telling him about this or that, about what gifts she had recently received, about what she had just learned from Lady Bryan–"Muggie," she called her. She had yet to do any of this, and Henry could not help but wonder about it. Had one of her servants or ladies said something to make his daughter resent him? Henry refused to accept the same sort of behavior from Elizabeth as he got from Mary. Elizabeth was his pride and joy–girl or not–and he was not going to let her become like her sister, no matter what happened to Anne.

Elizabeth turned her dark eyes on him. She really was a beautiful child, an angel. It was no wonder Anne doted on her and that everyone in her service was enamored of her as well… But her face was suddenly alight with excitement. She nodded eagerly. "Yes," she replied, "very much, Papa." She loved being close to her parents. She loved Mama coming to visit her, though the last time she had seen Mama she had been sad, and her father angry.

He was not angry now, however, and Mama was coming to see her too. Elizabeth had heard some rumor that the Queen had been sent away, but whomever had said so must be wrong.

Henry smiled. He was glad of it, though there was no way a child as precious to him as Elizabeth was–his only heir until Anne finally produced a son, God willing–could remain at Whitehall. This was a place no child should be raised; he had made a mistake allowing Mary to spend her formative years at court. Once again, he would not make the same with Elizabeth. Unlike Mary, she was a hale child; she was attached to her mother, but her mind had not been poisoned by Anne as her sister's had been by Katherine. And he intended to keep her healthy in both body and mind. Maybe in a few years, she could come to Whitehall more frequently…by then, perhaps she would even have a brother in the royal nursery. Until then…

"I am glad to hear it, my Elizabeth." He was. Henry was a man who loved being loved, obeyed, revered. It was why Katherine and her daughter tortured him so–why Elizabeth was so soothing. She had no thoughts, not yet, of disobeying him or even, he hoped, that he might be wrong and she or her mother or the Pope might be right. "You will not be too sad when you must return to Hatfield, will you? You will be my brave girl."

Leaning over, he hoisted her up and sat her on his good leg carefully. She was not too terribly heavy, and he was hardly too old or feeble to hold his own child! God forbid that time should ever come when he had a small child that he could not parade them around Whitehall proudly. No, by that time his Prince would be strong and too old for such things. And as for Elizabeth…he ought to reenter into some sort of marriage contract for her. If it was true–if Anne was innocent…if she bore him a son…he would need to make it perfectly clear to everyone that Anne Boleyn was the Queen of England and her children were his heirs, his princes and princesses. He could not allow the French or anyone else to question that. Not anymore. For a moment he imagined Jane in her place; what would the French ambassador, or the Spanish, or anyone else for that matter have to say to Queen Jane Seymour? How would they behave? She, too, was a simple English maiden as Anne had been…

"Her Majesty the Queen!" The voice of Elizabeth's herald broke the silence, shattered it into a million pieces, and Henry felt a cold hand close over his heart. He could no longer feel the warmth of his daughter's body against his, though one arm remained around her body, preventing her from leaping up and running to her mother's side. With every thud of his pulse, he heard her name–_Anne, Anne, Anne. _He saw her face. Oh, God.

Did he still love her? Did he want to see her again? Henry was used to discarding his problems for others to deal with. He had finally gotten sick of Katherine and had never had to see her again. He did not know how to face Anne. He heard her voice, the last memory he had of it. It was like ice in his veins. _Your Majesty, I beseech you! Your Majesty!_ That had also been the last time, until now, that he had seen Elizabeth. She had forgiven him for his behavior then, if she could even remember it clearly. He doubted her mother would show him the same courtesy.

Then she was there. Elizabeth squirmed against her father's restraining arm. It took all Henry's self-control not to flee or at least to keep his jaw from dropping. _Anne…_ she must not have come directly. She must have stopped in her own apartments to change. He could not remember the last time she looked so beautiful. Her gown was simple but a stunning shade of violet. Her hair was caught up in a net of gold thread and crowned with a diadem of amethysts. Her neck was bare, but it did not matter. She indeed looked the part of a Queen. She knew how to make an entrance, Anne. She always had. Somehow she also still knew how to take his breath away. Elizabeth finally succeeded in pushing his arm away and it was only an instant before she was beside her mother, looking up at her with eyes both loving and awestruck.

"Mama!" she squealed happily, holding up her arms.

"My little darling!" Anne laughed. The sound was like music now, whereas before it had simply grated on Henry's nerves. She knelt down and embraced her daughter tightly. Over the girl's shoulder, however, her eyes raised, searched, found Henry's.

There was hurt and anger in those eyes, but also relief. There were questions–_Why? _and perhaps _Are you still mine?–_but he was not sure he saw hatred in them. Henry had spent a good deal of hating Anne. The whore who had seduced and then betrayed him! Now, he did not know what to feel. Love? Gladness? What? He no longer hated her, however; he only felt anger at the men who had fed him lies, thinking he wanted them. Even if they had been true…even if they _were_, he did not _want_ to be a man cuckolded! There was no guilt in her eyes either, however. Again he thought back to that last time he had seen her…there had been desperation in them then, which he hadn't wanted to see.

_Your father and your brother arranged everything, _he's said. And _you are not what you seem!_ And she had said "No!" Hurt, cut to the very soul by his words? Or a lying little whore trying to keep her monumental lie in tact?

Anne stroked Elizabeth's hair as she drew away from her, covering her cheeks with kisses. His wife was clever, and she would know why he refused to reunite with her, if this could be called a reunion, alone. He wanted the child between them, for he knew how they both felt about Elizabeth. Neither would want to exchange more harsh words in her presence. Their daughter had failed to soften his heart before, but then so had Mary when Katherine brought her up as she so often did. Elizabeth would not have negated Anne's crimes…but if there _were_ no crimes…

Slowly, Anne got to her feet. He watched the folds of purple damask in her skirt smooth until she stood tall and straight and proud above him. His eyes slowly traveled upward, lingering briefly upon her bodice, that bodice that would soon, he prayed, swell with a child. When he finally refocused his gaze upon her face, Henry was surprised to find that he was not breathing. He had no words for her, no apologies–he was too proud for that. Let Cromwell and Brandon apologize…let them grovel at Anne's feet… But he would not apologize to her. He had raised her from nothing to Queen and Queen she remained. He must, however, say something. Elizabeth's eyes bored into him, watching expectantly. In her innocent eyes, her mama and papa loved each other. He ought to greet Anne as jovially as she had.

"My lady…" he began. It sounded wrong, too distant. He had thought of her as _the whore! _for more than a week now, but before that and after, too, it had been simply _Anne. _It had _always _been simply "Anne." With Katherine, it had begun as _the Princess Katherine, _and then as _my sister Katherine, _and even when it had simply been _Katherine, _he had equally often thought of her as _the Queen. _In his thoughts, Anne had always been Anne, his beautiful Anne… "Anne."

"Your Majesty." Her voice was barely a whisper. When he stood, Anne sunk back to her knees.

He marveled at her then. _A proper wife, a proper Queen. _That was the first thing he thought. She should submit herself to his will, even now! That moment passed. How absurd that Anne should be kneeling there before him when in her womb grew, at last, a prince! When he had believed the lies and imprisoned her, unknowingly threatening the blessing that the Lord had sent them. Crossing the space between them, Henry lifted her from her curtsy as he had once all those years ago in the midst of the whole court, when he had given her one of the first jewels…in their courtship. In their youth. How Henry longed for those days again. He had loved her with so fierce a passion that he could scarcely remember it now. It had faded, perhaps, but did that mean he did not love Anne? No, he did. He still cared for her for all the same reasons he had fallen so hard for her then. Her beauty, her mind, her spirit. Yes, he often felt as though she should silence her temper more often and subject herself to his will. But other times he respected her infinitely more because she did not.

As he raised her up, Henry felt her hands trembling, and despite his pride he felt guilt. He had done this to her–he had turned strong, proud Anne into an obedient woman at last by threatening to kill her and strip her only child of her position, to bastardize her. Now, he looked at Elizabeth standing there at Anne's side and wondered how he would have done it.

If he had seen Elizabeth again; if he had seen Anne…

"I have been blind, but God has opened my eyes to see the truth," he said simply. It was as close to an apology or an explanation as he could muster at the moment. "I trust that you have been treated with every care? And Lord Rochford…and the others?" It was almost worth laughing, thinking of such things. They had been in the bloody Tower! Of course they had not been treated well. He could remedy that now. Trust may be difficult to find again, for both of them. He could no longer trust Cromwell, nor Brandon–that was worse. Charles was his oldest, dearest friend, and it seemed all too likely that he had lied to him. And the lie would have cost him Anne. And of course, how would she ever trust him again?

"As well as can be hoped," Anne agreed. Her voice had a bit of an edge to it now, as though she was doing her best not to scold Henry for believing those lies. "I hope that you have been well…and you, my own dearest child!" This Anne added far more brightly, turning back to Elizabeth.

The girl nodded again, as enthusiastically as she had upon her father's knee earlier. "Oh yes, Mama! Have you bwought me a gift?"

Again, Anne laughed though the sound was not quite as pure this time. She had been given no time to prepare a gift for her own sweet daughter, but she could not explain as much, and so she must disappoint her instead. Henry felt the same cold hand close a bit more tightly around his heart. He had done this. _And Mary and Katherine as well, mighty King…_ As quickly as the voice had come into his mind it was gone, but it had spoken a truth he did not want to hear and would even now try to forget. Even if he had wronged Katherine and her daughter so badly, he had not done so to Anne and Elizabeth. He had repaired the damage in time.

Clearing his throat, he said, "I seem to recall that Mama was having a lovely gown prepared for you, sweetheart, for next month's celebration."

Surprise flashed across Anne's face and then confusion, but Elizabeth looked delighted. She turned her attention more fully upon her father and let him lift once more into his arms. One of her own chubby arms she hooked around his neck, her gaze shifting between father and mother. "What celebation?" she asked curiously, tilting her little head a bit to the side.

"Ah, I see Mama has not told you. I am sorry to spoil the surprise, my love, but it does seem that our little Princess has a right to know." Henry leaned forward and kissed Elizabeth's cheek before he set her on her feet and knelt down before her. "You see, sweetheart," he began, only to be cut off by Anne.

"Papa's birthday is next month, of course," she said, her lips pursed for a moment. "and he wants you to look beautiful and make him proud–not that he is not _always_ proud of you." her voice made it sound like an accusation, daring him to find some fault besides her sex with their daughter. Elizabeth looked unconvinced, and so Anne continued. Henry had not intended to tell her about the coming child either, not until they were sure–but then they could not really be sure until Anne was delivered. "Elizabeth–if the Lord is generous, I shall give you a baby brother in a few months' time. Papa wishes to celebrate that as well. Would you like that, hmm?"

Elizabeth looked as though her feelings about a baby brother were mixed; she smiled faintly, however, to mirror her mother's expression. Anne looked genuinely happy. No, not simply happy–triumphant. She glanced at Henry and he knew what she wanted to say by it. _You were ready to give up on me and discard me as you discarded Katherine, but I will not fail you. _One more chance. An array of more chances. Elizabeth had been worth waiting seven years for, had she not, if he was honest with himself? He could wait for the son, too. He simply had to be patient, and loving…and for Anne's sake and the child's, he could not stray. He had learned that lesson the hard way. She could not stumble upon him with another girl on his knee, not unless that girl was Elizabeth and his intentions were far different from those he had had for the would-be Queen Jane.

He could not afford to fail.

**11 May**

Charles Brandon did not know what was going to become of him. Would he take Anne Boleyn's place in the Tower, or her brother's? Henry felt betrayed. Once the lie he had agreed to tell for the King's own good had been exposed, it had unraveled almost at once. Charles had only agreed for his old friend's good, for England's good. True, he could not stand Thomas Boleyn. True, he had only supported him in the beginning because he wanted to get back to court, back to Henry's good graces. That had been a mistake. God would judge him someday for aiding that horrible man in his quest to put his undeserving daughter upon the throne. But what of Anne herself? He disapproved of the way the Queen had treated the Princess Mary; and his wife Catherine loathed her. Did he resent her enough to wish her dead? And what of her own little girl?

It didn't matter now. Henry was furious and his fury was a thousand times more terrible now that Anne was carrying his child. Charles did not know how to hide from it. This fury was worse than Charles had ever seen it, worse even than when he had discovered that Charles and Margaret had been married all those years ago. He was genuinely frightened of his old friend. He did not know what to do–and that was perhaps for the best; there was nothing he _could_ do. He was at the King's mercy, and it was all he could do to hope that Anne herself, if her word now held any sway, would be merciful and forgiving.

She had not shown any mercy for poor Wolsey, for More or Katherine or even poor, innocent Mary. So why should she show him mercy when he had lied badly enough to have her executed for treason and leave her own daughter motherless?

So he sat here, head in hands, waiting for the King. He sat in Henry's apartments waiting for–for what? He had already seen his friend's face. He had no desire to see it a second time. The rage, the sadness, the self-loathing… Henry regretted ever trusting him, he knew it, and they had known each other for years, back before Henry was supposed to have any power at all. They had met simply as two boys: the near-meaningless Duke of York, destined for life as a clergyman, and the truly-meaningless Charles Brandon, son of a flag-bearer. Now he was the all-powerful King of England and Charles was a peer, a Duke. By Henry's hand; because Henry had trusted him above nearly anyone else… And he had paid the price for that trust. He had learned the lesson.

He felt as though he was on the verge of tears. As frightening as Henry had become in these past years, Charles loved him as a brother. He was the only friend, the only true friend, that he had ever possessed. That boy, Harry, still existed somewhere inside the King for Charles as it must for no one else. Now he would lose it. He knew he would. He already had. It was gut-wrenching, losing that companionship. If that child had not stirred in Anne's womb, he would be safe…safe…

The door opened. The footfalls sounded, in Charles' ears, like thunder. Henry stormed in, horribly angry–he knew he was angry and he did not even have to look at him. That was how well Charles knew his friend…and being aware of the magnitude of this moment made things so much worse.

"You knew it was a lie, Charles." Henry did not ask a question; he _told_ him, daring him to deny it. "You knew that the Queen had never…wronged me in such a way. But you thought I would stop at nothing to rid myself of her, didn't you–goddamn you, Charles! You knew! Answer me!" Charles was used to this, but hardly ever when it was directed toward himself. He nodded, looking away from his friend. He found it impossible to simply say "yes." As he continued, Henry's tone was one of disgust. "Between you and Cromwell, you would have seen my wife dead, my daughter motherless, to say nothing of the condemned men!"

Again, Charles nodded. To name the innocent lives Henry's mad love of Anne Boleyn had taken would be fruitless, indeed suicidal. To mention Katherine's own motherless daughter…

"Get out of my sight, Charles," he growled. When the older man was slow to move, he turned on him, grabbed his arms. "Get out! Traitor! I never want to see your face again–ever! Out!" It was impossible not to see it now, the almost-mad rage that was plastered upon Henry's face. Charles stumbled backward, shaking. The King had said nothing of what was to become of him, only that he did not want to see him again. Did that mean he was a free man, as long as he stayed out of Henry's way? Or did it mean that he would soon be sentenced to the Tower–even to execution? Henry had called him a traitor. That could only mean the worst. He was trying to leave, but felt as though if he left Henry like this, it would be the last he ever saw of his old friend. He didn't want that. What if he appealed to Anne? Could he? Would she accept the apology of a man who knowingly sent her to death?

Henry glared at him as he backed away, trying to remember to bow as though such formalities mattered now. "Go! Go on!" The voice was now choked, however. The last thing Charles Brandon, a man who had known and cared for Henry Tudor longer than anyone else alive–longer even than the late Queen Katherine–saw of him was his tear-stained face turning away from his own.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Apologies for the long delay! I'm finally home for the summer, and I hope to be able to update much more often, though I can't make any guarantees. I would also like to encourage you to take a moment out of your day today to remember the real Anne, who was executed on false on this day in 1536. I hope you enjoy the long-awaited update – and long live Queen Anne!

* * *

**19 May**

Anne Boleyn was a social creature, a girl raised in the shadowy world of the court; she reveled in the abandon of court life, or at least, she had once. She had thrown masques and parties and dances for her friends – especially after her marriage to the King. She had done it, more than anything, to ease her loneliness. She had been lonely even before she had miscarried her second child, but afterward, the feeling had become oppressive. Henry had lost interest in her quickly after the birth of their daughter. Anyone with eyes could have seen it. There had still been hope, however. She was young, or young enough. She was still lovely and charming and witty. True, she could be sharp-tongued, but the King still wanted her.

At the end of the last year, however, things had changed drastically for the worse. She had lost the child she had carried after she had found Henry with that Seymour girl on his knee, and after he had been hurt in the tournament. Yet he had blamed her – she had seen it in his eyes. She had heard it in his voice.

You have lost my boy, he had said.

My boy. Henry's boy! He would have been my son, too, she thought. Though he would have been the Prince of Wales, the pride of the entire kingdom, Anne knew he would have been her baby boy first and always. How she longed to have another child to hold in her arms. She longed even to undergo the bloody, painful process of laboring to bring a child into the world.

Miscarriages meant pain with no reward; no life; no love. Only emptiness.

If she had known then the repercussions her words then would someday have, would she still have uttered them? You have no one but yourself to blame for this, she had hissed at him, angry and in pain and most of all, frightened – devastated. She had lost her son, her own savior. It is not all my fault.

It had not been. But how right George had been when he had said that she spoke too sharply to her husband; that she should be softer and more loving, and that she should speak her mind less. For a woman like Anne, such a suggestion had been unthinkable. Besides, Henry loved her because of her mind as much as for anything else. How could he have come to hate her and that sharp tongue and quick mind? How had he come to hate her at all? Perhaps he only hates himself for loving me, she thought. But that did not mean he still loved her, only that he felt angry that ever had. She still loved him, and indeed, for many long hours in the Tower, she hated herself for it.

Now, everything was different – and yet nothing was. She had been born to love the court, and to embrace its many excesses, but now, she found she would rather sit in the gardens with her daughter, or sit by the window with her embroidery. She had no desire even to preside over court dinners. She wanted to be seen by none. They knew where she had been and why she had been there – how many of them had believed it? How many of them still did?

They were heinous charges. That she would have been unfaithful to her sovereign lord, to her husband and her King! She may have used sharp words on many an occasion with Henry, but she had never invited another man into her bed – and for all she loved George, it made her blood run cold to think of taking him to her bed. He was her brother, for God's sake!

Henry had believed such things?

Henry would have sent the mother of his two-year-old child to the block for them?

It surprised her how reluctant she was to interact with the court. Whilst still in the Tower, she had daydreamed of triumph. Now, reunited with George and her ladies and those whom she loved, particularly her precious little child, Anne wanted no other company. She did not want to see their eyes or hear their whispers. She did not want them, as surely they did not want her.

She would reign in her tongue, for she knew now she had no other choice. If Henry wanted a complacent wife, she must become that wife, at least on the surface. She must be all he desired, for he no longer desired her. He felt guilt, perhaps. He looked upon their child and wondered if he could have stolen her mother from her. He wondered if he would have woken up beside the Seymour girl in a cold sweat after dreaming that Anne's ghost haunted him. Yes, she imagined he had thought of all those things. But she could not fathom that he still loved her and wished to be her husband, or wished her to be his Queen.

No one wanted her there, then, except for her daughter and some of her dearest ladies. They never truly had. They had wanted Katherine of Aragon – and though she had not realized it until now, she had pondered it often in the past several weeks: Katherine had been a pest to her, a threat…but dead, she was more of a threat still. Dead, she truly released Henry from his bonds. Dead, Anne had no protection. Henry could – and would – have discarded her far more easily than he had Katherine.

Not all of Anne's ladies were dear to her, of course. There were a handful of them whom she wished she could dismiss. Perhaps she would have, if circumstances had been different. Now, she wished for no possible quarrel with Henry, though she knew he would take great care with her while she carried his child.

Elizabeth and Dorothy Seymour were Jane's sisters; they remained lodged amongst the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. No doubt until a week or so ago, they had fully anticipated the day upon which they could call themselves sisters of the Queen of England. Now, they wore gloomy countenances and were somber and silent. They looked at Anne as though she were Lucifer's mistress rather than the consort of the King, and as though she carried the Devil's seed within her. Perhaps they had been convinced (all too readily, no doubt) that she did – that the tiny child now growing within her womb was not Henry's child at all, but one of those other men's…even her brother George's.

It did not matter what they thought. Anne's hand went protectively to her abdomen. As yet, it was flat and nothing stirred within, but in two months, maybe three…

To her surprise, the door of the outer chamber opened. Good Madge looked up, then stood and went to find out the identity of the caller. Anne strained to hear them, but they spoke quietly, and she could not identify the voice. She set aside her embroidery, however, and got to her feet; a Queen ought not to look like a lay-about, and besides – perhaps it was Henry.

"His Grace the Duke of Suffolk," was what her herald announced, however.

Anne was stunned. What business did Charles Brandon have with her? Once, he had been their ally. It had not been a month ago – not a fortnight, had it? – that he had come to her apartments, very much like he came now, with guards in his company, bringing with him a warrant for his arrest. What was it he had said then? Something about not bothering to pack her things – that money would be provided for her at the Tower… Since then, it had been mentioned that the money had been meant to come from Elizabeth's own household. Hatfield, after all, would shortly have housed a bastard, albeit a royal one.

That her so-called crimes should harm her daughter…!

For a brief moment, Anne felt panic and fear grip her. What if they had found some new charge – but no, no, she carried the King's child! Henry had discovered by now that there was no evidence. There had been no crimes, no crimes except that she had been, thus far, unable to give him a son.

"Your Grace," she said pleasantly as he appeared. She did not hold out her hand for him to kiss.

She had no desire to touch Charles Brandon or to feel his treacherous lips upon her skin.

"Your Majesty," he replied, and bowed so deeply that she was rather surprised he did not brush the floor. Flattery, if he was there to flatter her, would not move her – surely he must know that.

Silence filled the space between them. When he looked at her, did he wonder what she would have looked like at her execution? Did he see her clad in drab grey or black, no longer a Queen but a traitor? Did he wonder what it might look like to see a sword or axe sever that slender neck around which a strand of delicate pearls now hung?

"I know you have little love for me, Your Majesty," Brandon said, "but I wished to see you before I left court – I wished to seek your forgiveness."

Anne waited. She did not demand to know why he was leaving court so suddenly, though she wondered. The man looked tired, even forlorn, and she was nearly moved to pity. Yet why should she pity Charles Brandon? If he felt guilty for turning his back on Katherine of Aragon, it was his problem, not hers; he had not felt guilty enough to keep from turning his back on his new Queen. What was the worst that had ever happened to him? Henry had been his best friend since childhood; he had made him the Duke of Suffolk! Only his marriage to Princess Margaret had ever put a strain on his friendship with the King.

Perhaps he felt guilty, truly guilty, for what might have become of her.

Could he have bowed and called Jane Seymour Your Majesty as he now addressed her?

Yes, a voice in her mind whispered. Still, she waited.

Finally, Brandon spoke again. His words were slow and carefully chosen. "I beg that you forgive me for having so grievously wronged you, Your Majesty. I knew only that the King had grown weary of his marriage and that he was desperate for a son, and thought that you would never provide him one."

But he was wrong, you were wrong, Anne thought viciously, but held her tongue. She thought of her brother – his advice had been more prudent than she had been willing to admit at the time, and she knew it. She would have to be silent more often, even if the thought of becoming a meek and obedient wife and queen repelled her. Anne was anything but soft-spoken, anything but conventional, but her ways had gotten her in trouble before – it had turned Henry's love to hate. She had been the lover he had wanted, but not the wife. She must do better. Even a son might not protect her if she could not mind her words...

"But I knew the charges were false, and Cromwell and I ought to have held our tongues. The King has banished me from court, but my conscience would not rest until I apologized for the harm which I have done to you, Your Majesty." He inclined his head, clearly finished.

Apologies would not make anything right. They could not mend the fear and the betrayal. Yet now, at least, Henry knew that the charges had been fabricated...though only because God had seen fit to grant her another chance, another child. Banished from court – Charles Brandon and his false tongue deserved as much. She did not wish to see him dead, nor Cromwell, but if she had to see his face but little in the coming months, she would be satisfied.

He had come seeking her forgiveness – she would give him that, at least.

"I forgive you heartily, if only because my brother and my friends and I myself still live, Your Grace," she murmured. "But I shall not and cannot promise to intervene on your behalf with the King."

Brandon looked up suddenly and she saw his eyes widen slightly. Could he be truly surprised? Certainly not truly sorry, she thought then. He simply wants to be in Henry's favor again. She lifted her chin slightly, but said nothing further. How could she admit to this man that she feared she no longer had any influence with Henry?

The silence was once again uncomfortable and long, but Brandon broke it at last, bowing – perhaps a little stiffly – to her.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he muttered without meeting her eye.

"Good day, Your Grace."

With a final bow, he turned on heel and was gone. The fact that the King had banished him and that Brandon had felt the need to humble himself before her ought to have given her more satisfaction than it did. In the Duke of Suffolk's wake, however, Anne felt still more alone.

**12 July  
****Hunsdon House**

Mary Tudor's mind was troubled and her heart unbearably heavy. It had been two months since the arrest and subsequent release of the so-called Queen; two months since she had been sent to Hunsdon, relinquished from serving her half-sister Elizabeth, freed from her prison at last.

Yet if no more charges were brought against Anne Boleyn, she knew it was only a matter of time before she was ordered back to Hatfield. Bad enough that the girl was still called "the Princess of Wales," Mary's rightful title. Bad enough that she still lived far below her estate her at Hunsdon, though at least here she had a handful of servants. To go back and kowtow to a child when she was the true heir to the throne, when her mother Katherine was – or had been – the rightful Queen of England…it was almost too much to bear. Mary wished she could think less on it, yet it was her life.

She loved her little sister. Elizabeth was a darling child, and it was easy to forget that her mother was a lying whore, probably a witch as well. Everyone loved Elizabeth. She was charming and intelligent and incredibly regal for one so young, especially considering her mother had not a drop of royal (or decent, Mary thought) blood in her veins. She was the model princess, or would have been if she had been a princess in fact. She was, sadly, no more than a bastard. Difficult though it may have been to see her as a rival at this tender age, it was true. The child Mary had seen wet her nappies and wake crying for her Muggie in the night would someday, no matter what, be a threat to her. It was best not to get too attached to this child of the Great Whore.

The people were already attached to her. She knew that much – she had heard them crying "Long live Your Grace!" and "God bless the little princess!" as though they had completely forgotten there was another, legitimate Princess who needed their love and support more than ever. Once, those adoring crowds had called her name the same as they now did Elizabeth's and it broke her heart. How quickly they forgot – how short their memories were!

Yet all had not been lost. Adore Elizabeth they might, but they still hated her mother. They still loved their good Queen Katherine, even after Katherine's death. Now that it was said Anne had been wrongly imprisoned, they would no doubt begin to second guess their loyalties. After all, Katherine was dead. And should that witch give the so-called princess a bastard brother, should she bear a son… Mary trembled to think what would happen then. Their hatred would melt away and they would thank God for their Queen being safely delivered of a Prince. It would be not only Elizabeth who was beloved – it would be her whore of a mother as well.

Mary spent long hours on her knees before God, begging Him to show her why He had taken her mother from her and let her father be bewitched by the Great Whore. God had not answered her. She had thought it was His plan that had sent Anne to the Tower. She had rejoiced to hear that her father's eye had turned to the reportedly virtuous, demure Lady Jane Seymour. The Seymours were a Catholic family fiercely loyal to Mary's mother. God had surprised her – even disappointed her. Anne had not been executed. Indeed, within her womb grew another child. She tried to convince herself that it was a child of incest or the devil's own spawn, but she had begun to wonder.

If it was her father's child, could it be of the devil? And what of Elizabeth – Mary could not deny that they were sisters, if only through the King. How could that be the devil's work? Did God not watch over them all? Would he not wish to protect England, if it was truly in danger? Yet if Anne Boleyn was not a witch, if she did not work for Satan himself… Mary could not bear thinking that perhaps her parents' marriage had indeed been invalid, that she was the bastard. It was impossible. It went against everything she knew in her heart to be the God-given truth!

"My lady." Mary looked up from her prayer book. One of her women stood there, looking rather anxious. She could feel the hot tears shining in her eyes and hated herself for it. She did not want to show weakness to anyone, certainly not to this young woman of questionable loyalty. Yet she could not seem to blink them away. "You have a visitor."

A visitor? "Show them in," she said, lifting her chin. She was in little position to be receiving anyone. She had not been for years. Mary ought to have appeared in full estate as the Princess she was, with the blood of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain coursing through her veins. Instead she sat here in a drab black gown, skinny and sickly pale. She could do nothing about it, however, except hold her chin high as her mother had taught her. Someday, somehow, she would be the Queen of England. She would prove herself more worthy of that title than any bastard of Anne Boleyn's!

But when Anne Boleyn herself appeared there with four of her own ladies behind her, Mary's jaw dropped. She could not help herself, cold not try to look respectable and regal. How dare this evil woman come here, sweeping in like a queen in the same jewels that had once hung around Katherine of Aragon's neck! She took in the rich folds of green silk, the glittering golden net that trapped Anne's dark hair, the emeralds against the smooth skin of her throat, and hated her more than she ever had before. It was undeniable that there was something beautiful and triumphant about Anne, far more than when she had come to Hatfield to see her infant daughter. Instinctively, Mary focused her gaze on Anne's abdomen. It was impossible to see any change in that slender figure, but if what they said was true, it would soon thicken and swell with the prince that should have been borne by Mary's mother – or else should not have been borne at all.

If she were wiser, if she had less pride, Mary would already be on her feet. She would already have sunk into a falsely respectful curtsy. She was not wise and she was very proud, however, so she did not move, only gazed up in horror at the woman standing there before her. More infuriating than the nerve of Anne being there at all was her expression. It was gentle, sympathetic, even motherly. As though she cared for Mary! It was a laugh, the idea of Anne Boleyn doing anything but loathing her.

Seeing that her young stepdaughter was not going to greet or even acknowledge her, Anne smiled sadly. Always stubborn, Mary Tudor. All that Spanish blood – all those things Katherine had told her as a little child. Yet she did feel pity and sympathy for Mary now far more than she had in the past. Her own daughter may well have ended up like Katherine's, had God not intervened and saved her. Yet Elizabeth – for better or worse – would have been told only lies about her mother and she would not have been able to remember anything Anne might have told her. She may well have grown up thinking Anne had not even loved her. It was too painful. She could not imagine her darling Elizabeth growing up a poor, lonely soul. For that reason, she was willing to try again with Mary. The girl deserved another chance. She was still young, and even if she was a bastard, she had a bright future ahead of her.

"Lady Mary," she said softly, taking a step forward. "I have come here in friendship. There should be peace between us."

"Friendship?" Mary could not keep herself from speaking. She could not still her tongue, nor keep her hands from trembling. How dare this woman presume so much! Friendship. Peace. Rubbish. "The same friendship you showed to my mother? You have what you want. You took everything. But you and I both know the truth: you are my father's mistress and your daughter is a bastard. My mother, Katherine of Aragon, is the only Queen I will ever recognize!" Her voice had grown loud but not shrill. It was simply firm and impassioned. She would not let her own doubts get the best of her.

A shadow passed across Anne's face as though something in Mary's words had stung. Good; let her be embarrassed and ashamed of herself!

"Mary, your father misses you. I have done wrong by you in the past, but I will do all I can to reunite you and the King now. All you need do is sign –"

"I will not! I will never sign my name to such heinous lies!" This was dangerous, yelling at the woman nearly everyone now acknowledged as the Queen Consort of England, even if she was still considered by some to be a princess. It would be worse still if Anne chose to convey her stubbornness verbatim to the King. He would not be pleased that Mary continued to stay true to Katherine and to her memory. Perhaps he would even be angry – throw her in the Tower…execute her? Would he execute his own daughter?

Yes. She knew it was true. He had been prepared to execute Anne, the woman he had moved heaven and earth for, the woman he had abandoned his wife and child for. He would do anything, Mary thought, if it meant flaunting his power and getting his own way.

Still, she would not do it. She could not. Especially not since Anne was the one here, asking it of her.

Anne sighed, the breath leaving her cupid's-bow lips in a soft but audible rush. There was sadness that seemed almost genuine in her bright blue eyes. Mary wished she could look away from them but she stood her ground, determined to best this devil-loving whore. She would not look away; it was she, not Anne, who was truly royal, was it not? If only she felt more regal and less like a child. If only she did not, at that moment, long to be Elizabeth so that she could look at this woman with love instead of loathing and be swept up in her arms, once more beloved by all and a princess… She could not believe she was thinking such things, but being here at Hunsdon was no less lonely than being at Hatfield.

"Mary, I wish nothing more to see you reunited with the King. And I can only hope that, were someone in my place, they would do the same for my daughter."

"Your daughter is a bastard!" Mary snapped, her rage bubbling up again. If a different woman was now in Anne's place, the world would be better for it. "I am the King's true-born daughter and I will do nothing that suggests otherwise. This house is mine, madam, and I demand you be gone from it!"

There was stunned silence. No one bothered to reprimand Mary and to remind her that she was speaking to her Queen. It would be useless. There was obviously no more to be said. Anne looked as though she genuinely regretted it, but if the girl was determined to be stubborn, she could not change that. She only hoped that Mary realized her very life was at stake if she chose not to sign the Oath. Henry would stop at nothing to get what he wanted - that much had been clear from the beginning of their relationship. Now that she herself had nearly been killed on false charges, Anne felt as though she was walking on eggshells. If he would have seen her die, would he also imprison, possibly execute, his own daughter? Mary could not afford to find out.

She raised her chin slightly, refusing to be demeaned by her stepdaughter and her foolishness. She had tried, and perhaps she would try again, to reunite her with Henry and to see them the happiest possible family in the circumstances. She could not easily forget that Elizabeth would have been in Mary's place if God had not intervened. Today was not the day, however.

"Good day, my Lady Mary," she said softly, and turned her back before she could see whether or not the girl curtsied.

Mary did not.

**28 July  
****Whitehall**

"Master Cromwell, I wish you to place my daughter Mary under house arrest." The King looked agitated. In his hands, he held a rather battered-looking piece of parchment. His fingers trembled.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Thomas Cromwell knew he had to be careful. He had heard of Charles Brandon's disgrace – he did not want to fall so far from the King's good graces, though perhaps he already had. It was impossible to tell with Henry these days. His temper was more volatile than ever. He was even more protective of Anne than he had been during their prolonged courtship, though she, too, walked on eggshells around him. Any bad word against his lady now brought the King's wrath upon the head of the speaker almost at once. At best, that wrath was displayed with darkly threatening looks. At worst, a tirade of furious words rained down upon the unfortunate fool. Thankfully, most had learned weeks, if not months ago to hold their tongue about the Queen.

Mary Tudor, the bastardized Princess, was a girl who would never hold her tongue, however. She was Henry's daughter, after all – and Queen Katherine's, too. Neither of them were anything less than stubborn and outspoken when they wished to be, and Mary was still worse. What she had done to incur her father's anger, Cromwell almost did not wish to know.

Henry waved the parchment about in exasperation. "This letter – she wrote it. Mary. My own _daughter_," he muttered. "It is a letter to the Seymours." A shadow passed over his face then. He had become disillusioned with the Seymours over the past few months, though it had taken him quite some time to stop looking sad and regretful whenever he heard Jane's name. He had no evidence that she was trying to do him wrong, but had become convinced that Sir John and his sons had known perfectly well of the Queen's innocence.

"In it," Henry continued, shaking off the momentary sullenness, "she says she is convinced that the Queen has committed countless sins against me and God, and that she is willing to work tirelessly for the virtuous and noble cause of Lady Jane, a lady far worthier of my affections and her mother's throne."

Here, his voice grew tight and strained, as though he was attempting to convince himself Jane was not far worthier of his affections than Anne. The moment passed, and he seemed all too tempted to crumple Mary's letter in his hand, but thought better of it. Cromwell wondered whether it could have been forged – surely Mary would not be so foolish – but no. Henry would know his own daughter's hand, would he not? And after her mother's passing and after nearly being freed of Anne Boleyn, he supposed Mary could indeed be so foolish.

"I will see to it at once, Your Majesty," he murmured and bowed low.

Henry barely looked up at him as he began to back away. "Thomas – fetch the Queen to me," he said by way of dismissing him.

The Queen. In truth, Thomas Cromwell had done everything within his power for two months to avoid seeing Anne or coming into contact with her. They had had their confrontation not too long after her release from the Tower, but the tongue-lashing he had been expecting had not come. Anne simply looked…sad. Dismayed, yes, and terribly lonely. It had been far more terrible than sharp words would have been, and Cromwell had no desire to see that forlorn look in Anne's eyes again. She had once been his friend, and he knew he would have regretted her death, though the evidence he had fabricated had ultimately been to save his own skin.

Yet he could do nothing but bow and assent to the King's will. He would go to the Queen, endure her presence, and be grateful that he had not been executed himself.

**5 August  
****Wulfhall**

"I feel such pity for the Princess Mary," Jane said, frowning. She sat with her brother Edward on the lawn, stretched out on the soft grass, her eyes turned towards the sky. Not so long ago, she had anticipated a wedding – a royal wedding. She had wondered how it would feel to be addressed as "Your Majesty." _Your Majesty, Queen Jane_. Now the words were hardly more than a dream. The King's wife lived still, and she remained with child.

If I could go back to Whitehall, Jane sometimes wondered, would he still want me? Would he still take me on his knee and kiss me?

She should not have such thoughts, for Henry had said nothing to the Seymours since the Queen had returned to court other than to send them back to Wiltshire. He had made it perfectly clear that they were no longer wanted or welcome, at least not by the woman who would soon bear his child, if God willed it. He no doubt remembered the last time he had taken Jane on his knee. His wife had miscarried then. Jane had told herself it was mere coincidence – the will of God. Perhaps not...

It was true, however, that she pitied Princess Mary. Her mother was dead and she was still called a bastard. She refused to take the Oath, and if she were asked, Jane admired her for it, though had she been Queen, she might have urged her to act differently.

"If the Queen bears the King a son, Janie, the Princess Mary will have to accept her fate," Edward said flatly, sounding disinterested in the girl. There was something in his tone that Jane did not quite like. It sounded too much as though he were reminding her that if she had borne the King a son, Mary would have been in the same position she would likely find herself in five months from now, if she knew what was good for her. She had so much courage and so much pride, and was no longer a child...if only Jane could help her! If only she could visit her, at least.

"You mustn't forget, sister," he added, "that it was the Princess Mary's letter to our family that has awoken the King's anger towards her anew."

Jane turned her face away from the great sapphire sky to look at Edward. He was solemn-eyed and thin-lipped as ever, the picture of seriousness. She wondered, looking at him, how one could possibly be as close to one's brother as the Queen reputedly was to hers. Could it be possible that she was guilty of the charges against her...of the incest? They said that she was incredibly fond of Lord Rochford. Jane had seen it for herself. She could not imagine having such tender feelings towards her brothers, not even Thomas. Perhaps Edward loved her, but he loved her less now than before. She was his pawn, and his game had failed.

The Boleyns had won.

Turning away once more, she sighed, exhaling slowly. She had been a plain and poor country girl nearly all her life, though she had served two Queens. For a few brief, shining months, she had been something more...she had been a goddess! Henry had thought her beautiful and sweet and kind. Henry had loved her.

Perhaps he still did.

She had shed her tears over Henry in May, but she had not forgotten him or his loving words. He had treated her, for the first time, as though she truly mattered. He had kissed her, he had wanted her favor at the joust, the joust which seemed so long ago now... Surely he had not forgotten her, either. Surely the fact that his wife was with child did not renew his love for her.

"I wish that I could write to the King," she murmured.

The words were met with silence at first. She wondered if Edward thought her too bold for saying so. Thomas had told her that her father had discussed finding her a husband shortly after they had returned to Wulfhall. They wished to forget and to hush the matter of the King's love up as quickly as possible since it was no longer a reality. Did they have so little faith in him? He could still want me. It was a foolish thought, of course. Even if Anne bore him a child, it could be another daughter, and he could put her aside, or even if it was a son...

Edward touched her cheek. "Forget the King, Jane. He may not love the Queen as once he did, but he is angry that the charges against her were false. He thinks that Father and I may have had a hand in fabricating them."

Once more, she turned to look at him, surprise written on her face.

"Did you?" she asked softly. The Queen had been innocent, they said. So why did Jane not feel horrible for her, too, or for her daughter? Was it because of what had happened to Queen Katherine and Princess Mary? Still, the fact that her father and brother could have invented such heinous crimes did make her uncomfortable.

His face was unreadable, unmoved. "Of course not," he said evenly.

"Did you know that they were untrue, then?" Jane asked.

Edward got up. He straightened his doublet. "The King desired a reason to be free of her, and one was provided. I did not ask questions. She was your mistress, Janie. You believed it to be possible, did you not?"

She could not lie and say she had not believed it possible. The Queen had a temper. She had proven herself able to act vindictively. Though she had never heard any of the other ladies whisper about anything of the sort, the Queen frequently had gentlemen in her rooms, including her brother. Yes of course she had thought it possible. She had not, in fact, given it much thought. She had been too consumed with the notion of becoming Henry's wife, the King's wife – the Queen of England...

Her silence was enough of an answer. Edward smiled slightly. The expression tugged at the corners of his mouth and he turned up his palms for a moment.

"Forget the King, sister," he said again. "He has surely forgotten you."

The words brought tears to Jane's eyes, though Edward did not see them. He had already begun walking back toward the house. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing the tears to cease. She was no longer a child. If the Queen bore the King a son at last, he would love her again and no doubt Edward's words would be true.

If she did not, however, there might still be hope for Jane and her family.

**24 August  
****Whitehall**

Henry came running, despite his leg, which pained him more with each passing day. He felt young again. When Madge Shelton had appeared in his presence chamber early that morning, he had feared the worst, again. He had almost been expecting to hear that this pregnancy, too, had ended suddenly. Yet Lady Madge had looked truly happy. He had dared to hope that she brought good news, though of course, it was not yet time for the child Anne carried to be born. Between his daughter's unacceptable behavior and Charles Brandon begging to be forgiven, he needed a distraction.

"Your Majesty," she said breathlessly, "the Queen's child has quickened!"

It had felt like years since he had laughed, but laugh he did then. He took Madge's hand and kissed it, leaving her stunned no doubt, and then he had simply run. People barely scampered out of his way in the corridors. Finally, finally, he reached the Queen's apartments.

All her ladies curtsied to him, but he saw none of them. He looked around for Anne and was told she was still abed.

Anne had sent Madge to him, and she was therefore surely expecting him. He did not wait to be announced, but slipped into the bedchamber he knew so well to find her propped against her pillows, one hand resting against her slightly swollen abdomen. She had not yet dressed. In only her dressing gown with her dark hair loose against her shoulders, she was a picture indeed. Henry remembered why he had loved her for so long, and knew how much he would surely have missed her…he would have suffered her loss in silence, and perhaps in bitterness because of how she had wronged him. Yet he would have missed her all the same.

Hearing his footsteps, Anne lifted her head. Their eyes met. She was the first to smile.

There had been a change in Anne since she had returned from the Tower. She had filed down her edges and become softer, more pliable, quieter. She had become in many ways the wife and Queen he had wanted her to be. It did not escape him that she had become so only because she had felt the need – because she feared for her life otherwise.

Things had not been easy between them for the past three months. Anne had not shied away from him, but nothing was as it had been. He missed his Anne, his old Anne, how he had felt about her for all those years…

Yet the love they had had was not lost entirely. There was some tenderness in her eyes now. She stretched her hand out to him, and he did not hesitate to go to her.

He laid his hand in hers, and Anne, still smiling, placed it very gently across her middle.

"Can you feel him, Henry?" she murmured. "Your son?"

For a moment, there was only stillness beneath his palm, and he felt almost disappointed. Was it possible that Anne had thought she felt movement within her womb, but had not? As his doubts rose within his mind, however, he felt a fierce little jab against his hand, and then another. His eyes widened slightly, and he looked at his wife. He had seen this new smile before: she looked at Elizabeth this way. He had seen it, too, on Katherine's face, and Elizabeth of York's before her. It was a mother's smile.

"He is our son, sweetheart," he said finally.

Such words were as close as Henry might ever come to begging for forgiveness. His pride would not truly let him do such a thing. Yet he did feel remorse for what he had done. God had sent them this child to humble him and to reprieve Anne, who had perhaps been an imperfect wife, but a truly loving and wholly innocent one nonetheless. And now, the child had quickened. There was hope for them yet.

"No. No, he is really England's," Anne whispered, almost speaking to herself.

Henry watched her curiously. Was she proud knowing that within her womb grew the future King of England? Was she merely relieved? The days in which he had felt that they were of one mind had long since passed. Many times over the past three months he had wished they were not. Did she hate him now? Would she, after their son was born at last, welcome him back into her bed? He still wanted her. He had not, in three years, tired of her magnificent body, the body he had spent so long waiting for.

Hate him? No. Anne had become warier and more guarded around him, perhaps, but in spite of everything she did not hate him. _And I love you still!_ Those had been her words, months ago. If they had been true then, they must be true now as well.

He stood and walked around the bed to take the empty space at her side.

"He will be England's prince, but he is our son," he told her, watching as her face brightened still more. There was hope in that face and genuine affection as well. His words meant something to her. How could they not, when he had spoken so callously of the son who had been ripped from her womb less than a year ago?

_You have lost my boy, _he had said then. The pain and anger in her face mirrored that which was in his heart.

Now, Henry laid his cheek upon the swell of her abdomen, pressing it against the barrier of skin which separated the King – and the world – from his son. _My boy, _he thought. _My son. _Anne reached out and touched his hair, running her fingers through it. It was the most tender and truly intimate moment they had shared in many months, made still more magical by the strange sensation of the unborn child moving and kicking within Anne's womb. In that moment, he envied her the ability to feel and carry life inside of her, and realized how truly painful it must have been to suffer a miscarriage. Two of them.

He would make it up to her. When their son was born, he would hold the most elaborate celebrations anyone had ever seen. Everyone would know that the King of England finally had a proper heir, and that Anne Boleyn was truly the Queen of England, the mother of the future King!

For now, however, both he and Anne seemed content with the present. She continued to stroke his hair and he to listen to the movements of his tiny unborn prince. It was impossible to know whether an hour or merely five minutes had passed when he finally raised his head to gaze upon her face again. When he did, he was surprised to find it tear-streaked.

"Anne – sweetheart –"

She shook her head and pressed her slender fingers against his lips. The question he had meant to ask died there, silenced by his wife, who already knew what it would be.

"I thought I had lost you," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I will not fail you again, Henry, I promise you."

It was then Henry's turn to silence her, this time with a kiss. His lips lingered against hers until, for a magical moment, they were once more young and besotted and full of hope for a bright and glorious future.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: **Wow, a fairly quick update from me! A bit short, but hopefully to your liking. Thank you for all your encouragement, and look for an update of "The Shape of Things to Come" in the near future.

* * *

**3 January**

The Queen had desired to keep as silent as possible, as strong as possible. She did not want to show weakness, even now, even as she brought forth her savior into the world, in front of these women, so many of whom would have happily served the next woman Henry took to his bed and called his wife if they had had the opportunity. As her labor progressed, however, so did the pain. She remembered this pain, but the memory of it was nothing compared to the agony itself. Her love for Elizabeth and desperation for another child had dulled the memory still further until it had been but a whisper of this. She felt as though she was being torn open, and finally, she cried out.

Her screams could not possibly be heard beyond the chambers in which the Queen and her ladies had been confined for nearly a month now. They could not possibly be heard by the King, anxiously awaiting news: did the child live? Was it a boy, the long-awaited son? He waited now with his brother- and father-in-law and his friend Brandon, all of them nervous.

The Boleyns knew their fortunes rested on the birth of this child. They knew it must be a son. If it was another daughter, all hope would perhaps be lost for them. The Seymours might be welcomed back to court, and they banished, Anne set aside, Elizabeth and the new girl-child delegitimized.

Brandon knew he had been brought back to court only to witness the birth of Anne's child, Anne's son, to prove him wrong once and for all. Henry had not yet forgiven him. He had barely spoken to him, and now played a game of chess with George Boleyn, who looked paler than the King himself, if it was possible.

A man who did not know or believe that the charges against Anne had been false might wonder if he was concerned about the birth of his own child.

Brandon, who knew how close George was to his sister, was sure that he was simply concerned that she might die even in her triumph, if indeed the child was a boy. He might hate their father, but seeing George thus, Brandon could not hate him.

It would have been a shame to see his head on the block instead of Boleyn's.

Anne certainly felt as though she could die, and perhaps wanted to, from the effort of bringing this child forth into the world. The midwife told her to breathe for the thousandth time. Madge and Nan were on either side, one of them clutching her hand, the other dabbing her forehead with water. Between the shooting pains that ripped through her body and the shrieks they tore from her throat, Anne could hear them murmuring sweet, soothing things close to her ear.

Of course, it was entirely possible that many women had a worse time of childbirth than this. Anne's labor had begun early that morning, and it was only mid-afternoon now at the latest. Still, she felt trapped and feared the pain would never end. She had prayed incessantly earlier, before the pain of her labor had overwhelmed her, that the child to whom she was giving birth was, indeed, the longed-for Prince, her true savior, and yet now she found she did not care. She wanted it to end. She longed to be free of the physical exertion, of the pain…

"I can see the head – you must push, Your Majesty!" the midwife said suddenly. "It shall not be long now."

Oh, God. The promise of deliverance was enough to make Anne grip Madge's – or was it Nan's? – hand all the harder, close her eyes, and do her best to push the child from her womb at last. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and gritted her teeth. _The first thing my child shall hear in the world will not be his mother's screams, _she thought, determined, once more, to keep herself silent.

She was strong. She had to be, for the sake of her child, the child who had delivered her from the Tower and a wrongful death.

Even if she died now, and she was suddenly certain that she would not, she had not died then. She would have died giving Henry a son at last – a healthy son, a son as remarkable as his sister Elizabeth was already. Yes. Even if she died, the name of Anne Boleyn would never be forgotten. She would be a beloved and triumphant Queen in death rather than a disgraced, so-called traitor.

"_Push, _Your Majesty!" the midwife encouraged, her hands between Anne's legs, waiting to take hold of the newborn child.

_Our son, _Henry had said. She took one long, deep breath. It must be a boy. Her son. Henry's son. A child for England. All of them at once. She ignored the pain and her exhaustion and thought only of holding the Prince of Wales in her arms at last –

"Checkmate, Your Majesty," George Boleyn said as he moved his queen for a final time.

Henry looked a bit dismayed, but clearly his mind was not on the game. "Well-played, my lord Rochford," he said absently.

He was distracted by movement in the corner of the room, however, and looked away from the hand extended in goodwill from his brother-in-law. The door had opened and there stood one of the Queen's ladies. His breath caught. Surely everyone's did. What news did she bring? Did she come to tell him of the birth of a son – of the death of his wife – to tell him he must be patient, that Anne labored yet…?

The King rose and went to her. The Boleyns and Brandon lingered, though it was clear from George's expression that he would have liked to run to his sister's side. His father put a hand on his sleeve as though to remind him that it was the King whose child had just been born, the King's wife who had borne him as much as George's sister.

"Your Majesty," the girl said breathlessly, "the Queen has given birth to a healthy baby boy."

_A healthy baby boy._

Henry felt as though he could weep. He only smiled, a smile that brought his youth back into his eyes, if it could not restore it to his face.

"And the Queen, how does she fare?" he asked, though he could not imagine that Anne could be laid low even by childbirth. She had survived the sweat; she must surely survive this.

"She is well, Your Majesty, and asks for you," was the reply.

If Anne asked for him, Henry could not deny her. Their love was not what it had once been, and perhaps never would be, but she had given him a son, and he felt like a true and rotten cad for ever having doubted her. As he wove through the corridors, his head held higher than ever, at last the father of a trueborn, healthy son, he thought of his daughter Elizabeth. He would have robbed her of her mother simply to give her a brother, but she had a brother now, a brother who would match her in wits and charm. Elizabeth was a perfect princess, and her newborn brother would surely make a perfect King.

Half the court seemed to know by now that the Queen had borne a boy. As he went, Henry heard, "Congratulations, Your Majesty!" and "God bless the little prince!" His smile turned into a grin. Though the boy had just been born, he could already imagine him at five, sitting atop his proud father's shoulders, paraded through the whole court, the darling of all his future subjects…

At last, he reached the doors to the Queen's apartments. They were now open wide. All her ladies waited in her presence chamber, just as they had when he had arrived after her child had quickened. They were all smiles, though they looked weary, and curtsied prettily to him as he moved past them towards the bedchamber.

Anne was propped up on pillows. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her skin was the color of alabaster, almost matched by her nightgown. The ghostly effect was offset, however, by her smile. It was somehow the smile of a lover and a mother at once, for though she was looking at Henry, standing wide-eyed in the doorway, she held a child wrapped in delicately embroidered blankets in her arms.

"Come and meet your son, Your Majesty," Anne said then.

_Your son. My son! _Henry's heart pounded in his ears as he approached the bed. _My son, my son!_

He came to stand beside Anne and gazed down at the infant she held. Unlike his sister's, his hair was dark, a thin layer of black down on his little head. His skin was rosy and smooth and perfect.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked quietly.

Henry found he could not speak, but Anne simply lifted her arms and let him take the precious burden into his, cradling him as though he were made of glass. This transfer, from his mother's arms to this stranger's, made the newborn prince stir. His eyes opened, slowly, blearily, and he blinked curiously up at the King. In that moment, Henry could have been looking into a mirror. His son's eyes were precisely the shape and color of his own. If he had been tempted to weep before, the desire was all but overwhelming now.

He lowered his head and gingerly presses his lips against the silky skin of the infant's brow. The newborn responded with a mewling noise which made both of his parents laugh.

Enchantment lingered in Anne's eyes as she watched them. She had, at last, succeeded. The King had a son, _her_ son, as she had always promised. _When we are married, I shall deliver you a son. _It had taken three and a half years, but at last, here he was, Henry's own, trueborn son, the future King of England!

"He shall be a miniature of his father," Anne said. "Henry the Ninth."

"Sweetheart, my own sweetheart, he is perfect. Thank you," Henry breathed in reply, turning away from the boy who slumbered once more in his arms – Henry, yes; he would be called Henry after his proud and relieved father – to look at his wife.

He had loved her desperately, longed for her, fought for her, for seven years; and then he had all but hated her once he had had her. Now, however, he was not fighting or wishing for a promise, nor resenting failure. She was truly his beloved now, for she had given him the gift that Katherine had never been able to give: a big, hearty baby boy who would one day grow into a tall, strong young man. A son. A true heir.

He heard her words from months ago, when he had pressed his face close to her body, the womb in which the sleeping Prince Henry had then moved: _I will not fail you again, Henry, I promise you._

Yes, she had failed him once, but all was forgiven now. With Katherine dead and a boy in the royal nursery, Henry would dare any King to turn down an offer of Elizabeth's hand again. In the glow of her brother's birth, Elizabeth seemed like a promise herself, a promise of things to come…

When she had been born, her mother had apologized. _I am so sorry. _How different this day was.

He perched himself on the bed beside Anne and together, they admired their boy. Anne did not reach for him or try to take him from his father's arms. She simply observed, smiling affectionately at both of them, her Henrys. Soon enough, the young prince would be sent away to Richmond or to some other establishment, perhaps even to live at Hatfield with his sister, as Elizabeth had been. For now, it was enough to have Henry by her side, to know that she had pleased him at last.

It was enough to know that, whatever else happened to them, she would at last be accepted as the true Queen of England and, someday, she would be the mother of the King himself.

**11 January  
****Hunsdon House**

"Who does that awful woman think she is to order me about?" Mary Tudor asked, trembling with anger as she looked, again, at the letter.

It had been brought to her by Ambassador Chapuys, along with the new of Anne Boleyn's safe delivery of a son. That had been enough to break Mary. She had nearly fallen to the floor, and had swooned even when Chapuys had helped move her safely to a chair by the hearth. When she had returned to her senses, not even Mary had been too proud to weep. She trusted Chapuys, her mother's old friend, and had been willing to shed tears in front of him. He would understand. Why had God allowed the Great Whore to do what Mary's mother had been unable?

_But my mother did have a son, _she thought. The boy had not lived, of course, but he, too, had been born at New Year's. If only. If only her brother had thrived, flourished, been a strong and handsome young man now!

Why had God not let him live? Why had God not seen Anne Boleyn executed, as would have been right, considering what she had done to Mary and especially to Mary's mother, and to the Church? Why had God given her a son? She continued to have the dreadful thought that perhaps God had sent Anne to her father because He had wanted to see these things happen, but what kind of just, loving God would do such a thing?

She could not believe it. It was the devil's work, surely!

"She is the Queen of England, my lady," Chapuys murmured, his eyes downcast.

Mary whirled around to face him. Her light blue eyes blurred with tears that threatened to spill onto her pale, thin cheeks, but she looked as though she could not decide whether she was angry or heartbroken.

After a moment, her expression became one of accusation. _You, too, old friend? _it asked.

"How can you say that?" she asked, and even her voice trembled. "How can you acknowledge that creature that sits in my mother's place and calls her children heirs to the throne? Pretenders, that is what they are!"

She threw down the letter, barely keeping her words from breaking, barely keeping herself calm.

"My lady, I know how difficult this is for you," Chapuys began, and hurried on before Mary could interrupt him. "But the King calls her his wife, his Queen, and forgive me, my lady, but your mother has gone to be with the Lord now, and she left your father the King as a widower, one free to take another wife, even one for whom you feel no love."

Mary bit her lower lip for a moment before she spoke again. The silence was too long; it was poignant. She felt betrayed, no doubt, but Chapuys must speak the truth with her. She was no longer a child to whom they could tell tales. She was a young, intelligent woman, one who must surely come to terms with her status as a bastard – a royal bastard, true, but a bastard nonetheless. Though Chapuys thought it was a cruel fate for so good a girl as Mary, he had no say in the King's decisions. The Queen was no longer alive to be protected by his master in Spain, and Anne Boleyn was now indisputably Henry's wife.

"The letter, it is not from her, but it might as well be. The King orders me to come to court to accept the Oath and to acknowledge his son as the true Prince of Wales," she said slowly, frowning. "But if I do not…"

"My lady," Chapuys said, sounding alarmed now, "you must. The King has ordered it."

"I cannot take the Oath, Your Eminence!" she cried, her eyes going wide. "Do you not understand? I cannot betray my mother's memory in such a way! I could never forgive myself – God would never forgive me!"

"The King orders it," Chapuys repeated.

Mary flung her hands in the air, as though they were meaningless words. She started to pace then, turning each time with a ferocity that Chapuys had never truly seen in her before. Her reaction to the news of her brother's birth was, in fact, somewhat alarming to him. He knew Mary was proud and with good reason, but he had never considered her particularly foolish or self-destructive. Now, he was less sure.

"The King has ordered it in the past," she reminded him. "The King put me under house arrest for months because I expressed happiness that Jane Seymour had caught his eye. I am his daughter, Your Eminence. He cannot –"

"I beg you, my lady," Chapuys interrupted, his tone rather desperate now, "do not be so sure of what the King will and will not do. He has a son now, a son he considers legitimate. You cannot think he will ignore your refusal to sign the Oath again. You cannot still think, my lady, that he will be rid of the new Queen."

His words made Mary flinch. _The new Queen. _Yet she appeared somehow unmoved, even by a friend's plea, his words of wisdom. If she knew he spoke only out of affection and concern for her and that he wanted to see no harm come to her, she showed no sign of it.

"This boy is no better than Henry Fitzroy," she said savagely. "He will never be the King of England."

Her heartache and stubbornness broke Chapuys' heart. He did not know what to say to get through to her. By now, surely even Queen Katherine would have understood that Anne Boleyn's hold on the King was unshakeable. She had won. The King was already speaking of her as though she was a goddess. Henry Fitzroy, the little Prince Harry was not. His eldest sister would do best to realize and acknowledge that fact lest she find herself in the Tower, or perhaps worse. While it turned Chapuys stomach to think that Henry would even think of executing his own child, he may. He had seriously considered sending Anne Boleyn to her death when once he had prized her above all things, had he not?

"The King of France is your brother's godfather now, my lady," he told her, watching her face. She had no love of the French, of course, but a Catholic monarch had acknowledged what she would not: that her brother was legitimate, that he would someday rule England. "Even the people celebrate the Prince's birth…" She frowned.

"Your mother, she would not want to see any harm come to you," he added rather feebly. Did she not realize the danger she was capable of putting herself in?

For a moment, he thought he had gotten through to her. She looked pensive and had stopped pacing. Rather than on him, her eyes were fixed upon the low-burning fire in the hearth. He took the opportunity to examine her more thoroughly. Mary's gown was clearly old and all but hung off of her; she was so very thin and pale. She looked almost sickly. The gown had been patched, but still seemed threadbare.

This poverty was the price she had thus far paid for her insolence. She had clearly learned to live with it, accept it, bear it like a badge of honor…but if she was thrown into the Tower, put on trial for treason, how would Mary cope?

He feared for her and wished to help her, but he could not force her hand.

"If His Majesty wishes me to come to court to hear me slander my mother and to sign my name to lies, he will have to drag me there," she said at last.

Chapuys wanted to argue with her. He had half a mind to beg her to sign the Oath. Though he was not fond of Anne Boleyn, he thought that she had better intentions towards Mary than she perhaps once had had. If only Mary could see it. If only Mary could think of Anne as something other than the woman who had bewitched her father, ruined her own childhood…if only…

"You may tell him that, Your Eminence. I am the King's trueborn daughter by his late wife, Queen Katherine of Aragon. I am the Princess of Wales. I am his only true and legitimate heir."

She held out one delicate hand for Chapuys to kiss.

He took it, of course, and kissed it once—twice—then turned his eyes up to see her face set in a determined expression. She drew her hand away and turned her back to him, as though to say he was dismissed. He felt the sting of the gesture. He was a friend. He was trying only to help her. Yet she now saw him as…as what? A traitor? She must certainly feel betrayed. Chapuys had no choice but to acknowledge Anne Boleyn as the Queen of England, however, and Mary as a bastard. He may have some small amount of immunity as an ambassador, but paternal affection did not separate him from the King's wrath as it had thus far with Mary.

Chapuys feared that she may grow angry the longer he stood gazing upon her. He bowed, then, muttering, "My lady," and leaving her to her sorrow and her bitterness.

**13 January  
****Whitehall**

Elizabeth had been brought to court in honor of her brother's birth. She had been told for the entirety of her three years on earth to pray to God every night to send Mama and Papa a little brother, though Elizabeth rather thought she ought to have been enough. She knew that sons were traditionally given power, knew that her father wanted one badly, but she knew, too, that she was his sweetheart and his Elizabeth, and she did not think that he could really love and spoil a little boy as much as he did her. She never said such things, of course, and certainly not to Lady Bryan. Perhaps if she had seen her mother more often she would say them to her, or even to her sister Mary.

But Mama was at court, and never came to see her at Whitehall after she had come back in the springtime after being away. She was told her mother could not visit because of her condition, but she did not exactly understand why Mary had never returned to Hatfield. Though her elder sister was not her mother's daughter, nor was she particularly happy, Elizabeth had been quite fond of her, perhaps simply because she was her sister.

Now, however, she had a brother, and despite his tiny size and inability to speak or walk or read or do any of the things she herself could do, he was the center of attention at court.

If she had been a different sort of girl, Elizabeth might have resented the gifts and affections showered upon the new Prince, but instead, she had taken her mother's word to heart. As soon as she had arrived at court, she had been taken to see the Queen, still confined to her chambers as she had not yet been churched. Mama had presented her brother to her and even let her climb up on the bed with her and kiss him.

"His name is Harry," she explained as Elizabeth reached out to stroke his downy head. "You must promise that you will look after him, my love, when he comes to live with you at Hatfield. He is your little brother, but he will also be the King someday; you must take the best care of him."

So he was coming to live at Hatfield. The people there would no doubt dote upon him just as the courtiers were already doing. Mama and Papa might forget about her entirely! But Elizabeth told herself to stop acting like a baby herself, for if this was what Mama wanted from her, she must agree. There was no one she loved and respected more in the world than her mother. Looking up into her beautiful and expectant face, she nodded and agreed and then kissed her brother. It was a rather wet, messy kiss that left his face scrunched and him mewling.

She had then attended her brother's christening, for which she had gotten a lovely new gown. So far, however, it was the only festivity in which she had been allowed to participate. The jousting was deemed too violent for such a young child; the feasts were begun too late, were too crowded, and sometimes even too "vulgar," they said. Elizabeth had at first been disappointed, since she would have liked to see Papa win the day on the tilting field, but she was told that her father no longer participated in tournaments. He had sat and watched at her mother's side, content, at least, that her uncle George had acted as her champion and won the day.

She was enjoying a true treat now. It was not a masque or feast or tournament, but more precious still to the little girl. Her papa had come to take her with him to the gardens, and had walked patiently with her as they reached them followed at a distance by a couple of guards. Once they had gotten outside, he had scooped her up and had even let her ride on his shoulders for a few minutes.

"I hear they are already teaching you French and Latin," he was saying, reaching up and swinging her down from her perch on his shoulders.

She wrapped one arm around his neck and leaned her head against him.

"Yes, Papa."

"You will have much to teach your brother when he grows up."

That was all anyone had to talk about, even to her. A little baby! But Elizabeth did not mind too much. Her papa was not with her baby brother, but there with her, and besides, little Harry had been sweet enough to win her love already. If Mama and Papa loved him, she must as well. And she had made a promise to Mama besides. "Yes, Papa," she repeated.

He rubbed her back. "That's my girl," he murmured, and she snuggled a bit closer. She coveted her father's affection, for she saw him less-often than she did her mother. He sent her gifts, but it was not the same thing as being hoisted into his arms and treated as though she was the most precious thing in the world to him, more precious than England itself! Perhaps Elizabeth was spoiled, but she was so charming, so beloved, that no one seemed to mind, certainly not Mama and Papa.

While they wandered in the gardens, however, a man Elizabeth had never seen before appeared, looking rather nervous. He bowed low to the King, saying, "Your Majesty," and then glanced at her, and muttered, "My lady Princess," as though he did not want to be heard.

"Well, Your Eminence, what is it?" her father asked. He suddenly sounded rather short.

"I have come from Hunsdon and have delivered your command to the Lady Mary," the stranger said. He had a strange accent, one Elizabeth could not quite place. She brightened when he said _the Lady Mary, _and if she had not known better, might have interrupted him and asked where she was; where was Hunsdon? Why was she no longer at Hatfield? What had Papa commanded Mary to do? The man did not look particularly happy, however, and she wondered whether Mary was ill.

"She…she has refused to come to court, Your Majesty," he added, "to acknowledge your son Prince Henry, or to sign the Oath."

Elizabeth did not exactly know what the Oath was, but she was dismayed to hear that Mary had refused to come to court, for then she could have seen her again. She did not like the part about Mary refusing to acknowledge her brother, _their_ brother, however. Neither, apparently, did Papa. His grip around Elizabeth's legs had tightened so as to be almost uncomfortable. She squirmed.

When he spoke, she knew Mary had done something dreadfully wrong. "Damn that girl!" he said first. "_Goddamn _her."

Mary was Papa's daughter as well, and Elizabeth did not want to think that someday she, too, could displease him thus. She hated to think that she could disappoint him so badly, and she would have been tempted to kiss his cheek and tell him she would always be his good girl, or else to hide her face in his doublet…but she was a Princess, and would perhaps someday be a Queen. She could not afford to seem cowardly, even at the tender age of three. She would listen to her father's anger at her sister and learn from it. She would not cower!

"Thank you, Your Eminence. You are dismissed," he said at last. His voice was cool and controlled now, and if anything, it was more unsettling than his exclamation before. The man bowed again and hurried away.

The King and his younger daughter stood and remained silent for several minutes afterwards. He remained stiff and angry, staring at the place where the man who had delivered news of Mary had recently stood. Part of her wanted to inquire about why Mary would not come to court – what the Oath was – why she did not want to acknowledge their baby brother as the Prince of Wales. She did not think Papa would be the right person to ask at that moment, however, and she did not want to make him angrier. She certainly did not want him angry with her.

"Papa," she whispered. He turned his head and Elizabeth put one small hand on his cheek. She tried to think of the proper words, "Papa, _je t'aime,_"

He actually smiled then, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead, holding her closer. His fingers combed gently through her hair. She knew she had said the right thing, and put her other arm around his neck, hugging him tightly in return.

"My Elizabeth," Henry said softly, and in that moment, he could forget that he had a second, older, far more willful daughter who used to speak pretty French to please him as well.

**20 January  
****Wulfhall, Wiltshire**

Jane Seymour was in tears. The news which had come from Whitehall a fortnight ago had been bad enough – the birth of a prince, the King's joy, the Queen's triumph. That had quashed any hope that Jane had had of ever returning to court and the King's affections. She had steeled herself for months for that news, however. The days when she had prepared to become the next Queen of England had long since passed; they felt almost like a dream now. This news, however, was truly awful. It was too awful. Jane could hardly bear it. Even her brother had seemed shaken when he delivered it to them.

"Edward," she stammered, "tell me…tell me it is not true. The King would never…"

A year ago, the King had taken her onto his knee and asked so gallantly if he could kiss her that she had been unable to refuse. He had treated her as a gentleman would. He had been chivalrous and kind. Surely it was not true. They must wonder, John and Edward Seymour, why she was so shaken. After all, she had no more business with the King. But would not any woman who had thought themselves half in love with a man, only to find…

"Come now, Jane," Edward said, sounding both dismissive and impatient, "the King was perfectly willing to rid himself of the Queen when he tired of her."

Did he speak of Katherine or Anne, who was now indisputably the Queen of England? Aside from the news of her safe delivery, they had heard, too, that the public had greeted the news of Prince Henry's birth with great excitement. Anne had never been popular, not even liked, much less loved, amongst them, but Katherine was now dead, and none of them would rather see a woman take the throne than a man.

Besides, it was public knowledge, by now, that the Queen had once stood accused of treason and in fear of her life, but that she had been innocent.

It had been public knowledge that the mother of the already-beloved Princess Elizabeth had nearly been executed because of lies and rumors spread by men who wished to see her dead, and so that the King could marry one of her ladies. Popularity she had never had, but now that she was the mother of not only Elizabeth but also a prince, the people would no doubt come to love her. She was charming and lovely and regal, at least when she was not throwing tantrums, and even Jane knew it.

Yet even his willingness to cast Katherine away, to execute Anne for treason, this was something Jane could not believe he would do – something she did not want to believe. It could not be true.

"But she is his daughter. It does not matter if she calls her a bastard or not, she is his _daughter,_" she protested.

"Janie, shh, it will be alright. She is simply in the Tower. There is no indication that the King will let true harm come to her," John Seymour said softly, going to her and patting her on the back.

She stared at him, her own father, and wondered: was it possible that he would do the same to her, given the opportunity? If he were the King of England and she was the so-called bastard, if she stood up for her rights, would he consider her a traitor? Would he put her in the Tower? Her father was perhaps not the most loving, but he was hardly cruel. He may have encouraged her to seek the King's attention and to encourage his interest and affection, but he was her father nonetheless. He loved her! He loved her enough, at least, to treat her with some dignity.

Edward was less sympathetic, less tolerant of his sister's horror. "Mary has brought this upon her own head. She has defied the King for years, but to deny his son was her fatal mistake. To defy his wishes even after her mother's death – to refuse to sign the Oath…she is a fool, sister. She is a proud fool. You might once have helped her, but now the King wishes to forget us. We are merely reminders that he would once have killed the mother of his son."

Jane feared she would weep openly. His words stung as though he had struck her. The King wished to forget the Seymours. She could do nothing for poor Princess Mary. Edward did not care that she had been taken to the Tower, that she faced possible execution, and he did not care that his sister might once have felt something for the man who had put her there!

"Forget the King, sister. Forget the Lady Mary."

Their eyes met for moment, hers tear-filled, his hard. He stalked past her then, still unsympathetic. His coldness chilled her. He would stand by and see Mary, a girl of royal blood, a girl of nineteen, beheaded for a crime that was no crime at all! Mary had more right to inherit her father's throne than ten of Anne Boleyn's sons!

"Father," she said, knowing her voice trembled, hating it, "I cannot bear it. I must write to the King."

Sir John seized his daughter's shoulders then, painfully hard. She started, and was surprised to see his eyes wide and, if not hard, certainly desperate. "Jane, listen to me. If you write to the King, congratulate him on the birth of his son. Ask him to find you a suitor willing to overlook the past. Wish the Queen well. But whatever you write to the King of, you must not mention the Lady Mary. You cannot, Jane. For your sake. For the sake of your family!"

He gave her a shake, as though to wake her from a daydream. She felt startled that even a man as good and righteous like her father would not stand for a cause that was right. Queen Katherine was dead, and thank goodness, for she surely would not be able to live knowing her only daughter was in the Tower, put there by her father!

Yet at least Katherine would be there to defend Mary. At least the people might rise in anger, in protest.

With the free wine and the extra alms, with the holiday mood in the dead of winter, with their New Year's boy, did they even concern themselves with their poor princess, locked away now, motherless and defenseless?

"Father – "

"Jane, you must not. You must not associate yourself with the Lady Mary. She has lost; she must accept the reality in which we all now live. She must accept Queen Anne and recognize Prince Henry as the rightful heir to the throne. She must, to save her own life, admit that she is a bastard, in the eyes of the King at least, if not in the eyes of God. You are nothing to Mary, nor to the King, anymore. Your brother is right. Forget them."

There was an urgency in his voice that shook her more badly still. She lowered her head. Nothing. She was nothing. She had never been anything, in truth. The King had treated her as though she were one of God's angels for a few months. He had courted her in earnest in those days after the Queen had left court. He had showered her with gifts and praise and sweet words.

But the Queen was still Queen. She had borne the King a son, and it was her opinions and her desires that would no doubt rule the King once more, not Jane's.

Never Jane's.

"Do you understand, Janie?" her father asked, touching her chin. He tilted her head up gently now and gazed down at her until she looked in his eyes.

"Yes, Father," she whispered.

_Yes, I will let the King execute his daughter. Yes, I will accept whichever old widower to whom you wish to marry me. Yes, I will someday send my daughters to serve the Princess Elizabeth or whichever princess comes to marry Anne Boleyn's son._

_Yes, Father, I understand._

Sir John leaned forward and pecked Jane's forehead. He was smiling, a terse but satisfied smile. "Good. That is settled then. Take heart, Janie. Take heart."

But Jane, the woman who would have been Queen, could find nothing in which to take heart at all.

_Remember to leave a review!_


	5. Chapter Four

**Author's Note:** A merry belated Christmas to all of you! I finally got around to writing for pleasure over break, and I know a lot of you have been hoping for an update on this story for a while now. I hope all of you are having a lovely holiday season. Thank you, as always, for bearing with the insanity of my college workload and waiting patiently for updates; enjoy! [As I'm going back to school in less than a week, I can't promise anything more in the near future, but I promise I'll never just abandon the stories.]

* * *

**23 January  
The Tower of London**

Mary Tudor had never felt more isolated or less in control of her life. Surrounded by drab stone walls and only a handful of attendants, she could not help but dwell upon all the wrongs done to her since Anne Boleyn came into her father's life.

Of all the wrongs, however, this must be the worst.

She could endure being sent away to Ludlow, dank and isolated as it was, even though it meant being separated from her beloved mother. She could endure the humiliation of being sent to serve the girl who had taken her place, the Great Whore's daughter, and being beaten for refusing to treat her as a true Princess. To her surprise, Elizabeth had even endeared herself to her. But this—the Tower? Her father's prisoner? This, she thought, was more than she could bear. She was the King's daughter; the granddaughter of the mighty King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, even!

As she sat, trying to distract herself with her sad embroidery hoop, she thought of how it had happened. Her memory of that day hardly seemed real…

She had stubbornly refused to come to London to acknowledge Anne Boleyn or her newborn son, the boy they now called the Prince of Wales. Despite a desperate letter from Ambassador Chapuys, who had delivered her response to the King, Mary remained steadfast. She was the sole child of the King who could call herself an heir to the throne of England; she was legitimate, while her half-siblings Elizabeth and Henry were mere bastards. Though Katherine had been dead for a year, Mary would acknowledge no other woman as Queen of England or as her father's wife.

She had repeated these things so many times that she seemed to be unable to consider any other reality. Her household pitied her. She must know, poor child, that the battle she fought could not be won. Though plenty of the household staff at Hunsdon had loved good Queen Katherine for many years, they admitted that they were relieved that the King had a son at last. Watching Mary, bright and pretty as she was, sink deeper into denial and depression only encouraged that relief. Few had any affection for Queen Anne, it was true. Most were loyal to the Lady Mary. But like many others, they felt new sympathy for Anne, the mother of their longed-for prince, knowing she had been locked away and nearly put to death on false charges.

And so they pitied their stubborn mistress. They felt helpless as they watched her daily spout treasonous sentiments. They prayed for her safety, but also for the King's mercy. Everyone knew his temper—the infamous Tudor temper which Mary so obviously share—had grown shorter than ever in recent years.

Their prayers, it seemed, were not enough.

Mary was surprised to hear she had a visitor. She had not expected Chapuys to return after his last unsuccessful trip. Though she grew lonely here, she would rather be alone and surrounded by sympathetic ears than have a visitor—be they friend or foe—tell her why she must betray her mother's memory and herself by accepting the whore Boleyn and her children. She certainly had no desire to see the woman herself again. Her presence was simply unendurable.

Her surprise was greater still to see Charles Brandon, her uncle by marriage. He wore a somber expression. She pursed her lips. Uncle or not, she had no love for Brandon. True, he was his father's closest friend, but he ought to have been one of her mother's strongest supporters, yet he had turned his back on her and let her rot in isolation and poverty until she died.

"Your Grace," she said tersely, lifting her chin slightly. She would not lie and tell him it was a pleasure to see him.

Brandon was unfazed. He inclined his head. "My lady Mary, your father the King has sent me to inform you that, if you do not bow to his will and accept him as the head of the Church in England and acknowledge his wife Queen Anne and his son the Prince of Wales, he will be forced to arrest you for treason and take you to London to stand trial."

All the color had drained from Mary's face as she listened to Suffolk. Arrested for treason? How could it be so? She had been disobedient, perhaps, but her father loved her. He was under that witch's enchantment. Not even now, after he had been so cruel to her mother and forced her into servitude, could she believe that he would actually imprison her in the Tower. She was his Mary, his pearl of the world! She was the child that he had paraded about the palace upon his shoulders, desiring to show off his beautiful little daughter to one and all. He would not lock her away in a place where traitors went to die. She was no traitor—she spoke the truth!

The severity of Brandon's expression and tone sent fear coursing through her veins. She knew that it _was_ true. Her father would stop at nothing to verify his lies, thereby justifying his cruelty.

If her earthly father would not watch over her, then, she must put her faith entirely in her heavenly Father and pray that he would deliver her, for she could not give in to the King's demands. She refused. To do so would undercut all the things her mother had said and all she had fought for—died for. Neither could she accept her father's new church. She would rather die a traitor's death than become a heretic…but perhaps her father would change his mind once he saw her languishing in the Tower.

Perhaps he would take pity on her.

"Well, my lady," Brandon prompted, sounding impatient, even bored, "will you acknowledge Queen Anne and reject the vicar of Rome?" It could not have been clearer that he had come as a messenger and warden. Chapuys and her father's whore had both attempted to convince her to change her mind; Brandon was uninterested in her answer, as long as he received one.

Mary must be brave for her mother's sake and for her own, and for the security of her immortal soul. She steeled herself and met Brandon's gaze with her cool blue eyes. She shook her head just slightly from side to side. Her lips turned up in the hint of a smile.

"Those are lies, Your Grace, to which I will never sign my name," she said calmly.

She could not read his face. Would he actually do it; did he have the nerve to order Katherine of Aragon's daughter arrested and dragged back to London in chains, a traitor? Had he expected her to answer differently, sparing him the responsibility and making him the bearer of happy news to the King? If he had expected her to consent at last and to sign her name to that filthy document, he was more of a fool than even Mary had realized…but surely even he was not _that_ much of a fool.

No, in his face she now saw only resignation. He nodded. "Very well. In that case, my Lady Mary, I have a warrant for your arrest." He lifted a scroll, though he did not unroll it. "You are to be transported under guard to the Tower, to remain there until such time as your trial begins."

As he spoke, armed men in Tudor livery entered. Mary shuddered. She felt cold. The possibility of arrest was something very different from the reality of it. Her house at Hunsdon was small and nondescript, but it was comfortable, at least—it was an exile, but not a prison. The Tower was quite the opposite. It loomed large and foreboding, a place of power and death. And the Boleyn whore who called herself Queen would sleep in her mother's marriage bed and dress in fine velvets and ermine while she, the Princess of Wales, shivered in the Tower!

Proud as she was, Mary was still only a girl in many ways. She did not know how to cope with the reality of arrest and charges of treason. She could not remain silent as the guards approached, more menacing than she could ever have imagined.

"Your Grace," she said, an edge to her voice, "Your Grace—please—you know I am no traitor. You know I am the King's true daughter, Your Grace."

This girl, who had once been his future queen, cut a truly piteous figure, but Brandon had long ago learned to steel himself against such pleas. He turned his back on her and walked out, leaving her to be all but dragged from the house by the guards. She had almost forgotten her dignity, shouting at them that she was the Princess of Wales and that she demanded they unhand her. Of course, they did not listen; Mary had arrived at Hunsdon an exiled bastard. She left a prisoner. A traitor.

The memories of her arrest haunted her, just as the memories of her mother did, and the memories of her days as a beloved daughter, a true Princess. Would she ever be her father's pearl again? Would she ever been hailed as the people's beloved Princess Mary or hear _Long live Your Highness!_ cried in the streets for her?

She sought solace in the Lord's time on earth; he, the King of Kings, had endured far worse than she now did, had He not? Even Christ had not suffered at the hands of His own father! It was enough to make her break down and weep, though she had not done so since her first night in the Tower. If only she could see her father and try to reason with him…but if her mother had been unable, how would she ever get through to him? If he had once loved her, and if perhaps some part of him still did, it seemed that love had been replaced by Anne Boleyn's witchcraft; he had eyes only for her bastard children now, especially the so-called Prince, who had been born so close to Christmastide that they treated him as though he was the Christ child Himself!

She would never be allowed to see her father, of course, not unless she bowed to his will and signed the Oath, which she refused to do. She would not even consider it. Not even if it meant death—at this point, Mary almost welcomed death. Though her mother had insisted she _would_ be Queen someday, she did not see how. Either she signed the Oath, thereby forsaking her claim to the throne and her faith all at once, and someday married whatever foreign duke or count or lord who would accept a King's bastard daughter; or she refused, ensuring her trial for treason became a reality, and died upon the block, dying a martyr's death.

Neither possibility appealed to her, of course, but Mary preferred the possibility of death if it meant she would be reunited with her beloved mother and her Lord. She could escape the heresy and witchcraft which had consumed England, even if she could never heal the kingdom and its people by her own hand.

Still, perhaps there was a way out. As she sewed, she thought again of her Spanish relatives. The Emperor had cared more for her mother, his aunt, than anything else; but he had once been betrothed to her. He had met Katherine's charming little daughter, and surely he remembered her fondly. Would he defend her, or at least offer her a way out? She doubted very much that she could send a letter to him (one of her letters had been intercepted even before she had come to the Tower, after all) but she could, perhaps, send a message to Ambassador Chapuys through her chaplain. It was a desperate chance, but if it meant living without having to sacrifice her faith—or her claim to the throne—she would take it.

Hope suddenly found new life in Mary's heart. She knew perfectly well that she might fail, but the worst they could do was execute her, as they already planned to do.

If she died now, she would do so fighting; she would have done so trying to help her country.

If she lived, she was sure of only one thing: she would be the Queen of England, and for those who had abandoned she and her mother in their hour of greatest need in favor of the Boleyns and their whore daughter, there would be hell to pay.

**26 January  
Whitehall**

"_Your Majesty: I know it may be imprudent to be writing you on this matter, and for that I humbly apologize, but my conscience would not let me rest until I had done so."_

Anne almost snorted. In her hand was a long, a poorly-written letter by an uneducated girl trying to sound eloquent; it was an appeal to the King, but someone had wisely directed it into the Queen's hands instead. She had no need of reading the entire thing—she knew why Jane Seymour had written it. That silly creature should have saved her breath. This letter could not save Mary. After all, had her _conscience _objected to the Queen of England, mother of a two-year-old girl, being executed on false charges? Of course not.

That was not to say that Anne wanted to see her stepdaughter dead; far from it. It was rarely far from her mind that Elizabeth could have shared Mary's fate had the Lord not intervened and sent her Harry. She liked to think, however, that her daughter would have been wiser and less stubborn than Katherine's daughter. Mary seemed determined to invite her father's wrath.

She pitied the girl now, locked away in that dreadful place in which Anne herself had spent one cold, lonely night too many. She understood precisely the fear and abandonment Mary must now feel. The betrayal. She supposed, as Henry's daughter, Mary had felt it for years now.

Poor child. If only she would listen to reason.

Anne knew, however, that Jane's appeal to the King would be of no use. She knew from experience. Since Harry's birth, she had begun to test the waters once more. If she must spend the rest of her life as a meek and silent consort, Anne knew she would be miserable. She had done so after her release out of fear. Now, Henry treated her as though she was the crown jewel of England. All the same, their relationship was not the mad infatuation it had once been, nor did they enjoy a deep, trusting bond even now. She knew she had to test the limits of Henry's tolerance.

Mary exceeded those limits. After her arrest, Anne had tried to protest, pointing out how poorly it reflected upon Henry to have the granddaughter of Ferdinand and Isabella locked in the Tower.

That had been more than enough. Henry had turned on her, furious. His blue eyes flashed with rage. "It is for your sake, madam, that I must do so, for if I had not done so, my daughter would obey me as she should!" For a moment, she thought he might strike her, or threaten to send her to the Tower once more in Mary's place. Of course, he did neither. She was still the mother of his beloved son. He had merely left her apartments and kept away from her for a few days afterwards. Even that stung her. but she accepted it—there was nothing she could do to counteract Mary's stubbornness. She had tried countless time to be kind to her and extend her hand in friendship. Mary consistently rejected her. The girl's fate was now in the hands of God and her father.

Reminding Henry of Jane Seymour's existence for the sake of his troublesome daughter therefore seemed unwise.

Of course, she had little love for the woman who might have replaced her. She had once doubted Jane was as naive and innocent as she appeared; the letter she now read was strong evidence to the contrary. Poor, stupid child. She did not want to see her dead, either; she simply wanted her to remain in the country, very far away from court and from her husband. For that reason, Henry must never see the letter.

"Here. Burn it," Anne said, holding it out. Her brother took it from her fingers and tossed it into the flames burning in the hearth. She sighed. "But you did not come to listen to a Seymour's foolishness. Nan—"

Nan Saville appeared in an instant. "Nan, fetch the baby, please."

"Yes, my lady." She curtsied and disappeared just as quickly.

Silence descended upon them for a few moments. Since their release, the Boleyn siblings had steered clear of one another. She saw George occasionally, but rarely alone and rarely for long. It hurt her to put such distance between them, but the charges against them had shaken her. They had always been close, closer than most siblings, it was true, but how could anyone imagine that she would welcome her brother into her bed? It still troubled Anne, even now, secure in her position and the mother of the Prince of Wales.

He had come for a private visit at last, however, to see his nephew before the boy was sent to Hatfield. Later, he would go to Richmond, but Henry had humored her and agreed that Elizabeth and her brother could share a household, if only for a few months.

She knew saying good-bye to him, so newly born, would pain her, but she had done it before and would have to steel herself to do it again. She was the Queen of England, and her infant son was the future King. She could not afford to be too sentimental or to fuss aloud. Anything could drive Henry away again. The possibility terrified her.

Nan returned with Lady Bryan, who had left Elizabeth's service to be the new prince's nurse. Her face was an unreadable mask as she approached the Queen; she simply inclined her head and put the baby into Anne's arms, murmuring, "Your Majesty…my lord Rochford," before turning on heel and leaving again. Anne wondered vaguely if the old woman thought it possible that something had happened between them. Surely not. She did not want a woman who suspected her to care for her precious son.

With Harry in her arms, Anne could think of none of those things, nor worry about what suspicions George's presence could arouse. She watched his sleepy little face with a tender expression; she had already memorized him—the precise color of his eyes, the quizzical looks he often wore. She loved him very dearly indeed, but did her best to remind herself that he belonged as much to England as to her, more than Elizabeth ever had. He was her savior because he was England's future. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, making him gurgle with pleasure, and she beamed.

"Harry, my love," she cooed, "your uncle George has come to meet you."

George took a step forward, bowing low. "Your Royal Highness, it is a pleasure. I have heard so much about you," he intoned seriously. Anne had to laugh. If she had had a free hand, she might have swatted him. Not a day had gone by when she did not miss her brother.

Straightening up, George stretched out a hand; he wiggled his fingers in front of his little nephew's eyes. It only took Harry a moment to reach up and grasped George's forefinger tightly.

Anne smiled. "He likes you," she mused. When she glanced at George, she saw that he was watching her, not the baby. The same pain and loneliness she'd known in the past ten months gleamed in his eyes. She wished she could look away and ignore it, but George had been—and remained—her dearest friend. Though she had rarely taken it, he had always given her sound advice; it was her failure to heed his warning that had very nearly cost them both their lives. It was that warning by which she had lived for nearly a year: _be the wife the King wants. Hold your tongue and obey._

Did that mean that she would forever be estranged from her beloved brother?

"Nan, do not shut me out," he said now. "I want things to be as they once were." He withdrew his hand from the infant's grasp and reached out to touch her cheek.

Despite herself, Anne recoiled. It broke her hear to see George's eyes grow dark. A shadow passed over his face and he dropped his arm. It stank of cowardice and betrayal. She knew it did. She had experienced that, too, when her husband walked away from her and from Elizabeth all those months ago. Making George endure that was unfair, and yet…

"George, things can never be as they once were," she said, trying to blink away the tears she felt welling up in her eyes.

_I love you so. You are so dear to me. _She longed to say those things as well, but George would not have heard them. He had reached out to her and she had rejected him, pushed him away, as she had been doing for ten months. Would she ever have another chance to apologize, to start again with him? It would not be this day. He face become as cold and formal as Salisbury's had been. She had done what he asked her not to do: shut him out. But in that moment, Anne's cheeks grew warm with anger and resentment. This was partially George's fault, didn't he see? He could not have it both ways. He could not have a loving, laughing, sister with whom he was intimate as well as a demure, proper Queen.

She must choose a role to play; she had seen what the former had brought her. For her sake, and her children's, she must now play the other.

"I am sorry, George." And she was, truly. Sorry for unintentionally endangering his life—he would have been executed for her sake had she not been with child. He and all the others. The sorrow returned, battling against the anger which had sprung up within her so quickly. It all left her confused and conflicted.

"As am I," George said softly. He paused. Their eyes met and they stood that way for a long moment, as though each was trying to see into the other's soul. She felt the closeness they had shared for as long as she could remember wilting and dying in that moment, and it was very nearly too much for her to bear.

He cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice had changed. It had lost its usual warmth. "Thank you for introducing us. He will look like you someday; I am sure of it."

Anne forced herself to smile; she forced herself to blink away the tears. "Thank you. It is good of you to say so."

When he bowed this time, he did not do so in fun. "Good day, Your Majesty."

"My lord Rochford," she replied. The words barely escaped her lips. She wondered if he even heard them. She wondered, too, when she would see her brother again this intimately, if ever. Perhaps that was gone now; perhaps that was what she had just killed. If that was the case, she had done so for both their sakes…yet it pained her too much. She needed to lie down. Her tears finally fell, hot and salty, upon her son's downy cheeks. He began to whine and to writhe in her arms. She did not have the energy or desire to console him.

She turned around; Nan stood faithfully aside, waiting to be needed—and she was. Anne needed her more than ever these days. "Nan…"

Her need went unspoken. The ever-loyal Nan came and lifted Harry from his mother's arms. The women exchanged a single glance and Nan offered her lady a small, sympathetic smile. She glided away to return the little prince to his nursemaid.

Anne's head ached and her eyes burned. She could no longer think of Mary's plight or of Jane Seymour. She wanted only to lie down and sleep until she awoke in a reality that better suited her, a reality in which she did not have to choose between her position and her brother, a reality in which she could trust Henry as she once had. She stumbled into her bedchamber and threw herself upon the great marriage bed, staring at the canopy until dark dreams pulled her down into an uneasy sleep.

**29 January  
**

Many found the things the King had done in the past decade heartless, cold, cruel; they no doubt considered him a hard and unfeeling man, especially now. Henry Tudor was many things, but he was not deaf—nor unfeeling. He heard the whispers at court: how could he possibly put Mary in the Tower? Fewer had asked the question so openly when his wife had been sent there! True, Mary had once been the darling of the court, but she had been seldom seen since she had been a child.

Surely they could see, by now, how willful and difficult she had become. By refusing to sign the Oath, even under duress, and continuing to declare herself "Princess of Wales," Mary had quite obviously branded herself a traitor. More frustrating still, she was not only speaking treason, but disobeying her father! Henry could not stand for it. He had little choice but to imprison her. surely Katherine had raised the child to be this way, he thought. Why else would she continue to defy him? Katherine's stubbornness had been frustrating and tiring, but she was the daughter of strong, proud monarchs. He could understand her own pride. But Mary! Mary owed deference to him, not to her mother's ghost.

If her mother had not deluded her into thinking she would be Queen someday, regardless of the circumstances, perhaps he could have his daughter back again.

He had loved Katherine once; he could not deny that. For many years, she had proven herself worthy of her motto, "humble and loyal." He had not enjoyed fighting with her to end their marriage, but he had had little other choice. Not only would Katherine never give him a healthy son—she would never do so because all the years they had lived as man and wife had, in fact, been sinful. It paned him to realize that, yes, for he _had _loved her. Once upon a time, he had indeed been "Sir Loyal Heart." But England had to have a King, and therefore Henry had to have an heir. He had to have a legitimate heir—he had to have a son. and so he must take a lawful wife. It broke his heart to set Katherine aside, as angry as she made him with her stubborn denial. Disappearing from her life and exiling her had been harder still.

Knowing she was dead sometimes proved unbearable. Though he thought of her less and less, he knew well that he would never forget her, nor truly stop missing her.

Sending their daughter to the Tower had been worse still. He had loved Mary from the day she first drew breath. He had not forgotten the lovely little girl who had ridden about court on his shoulders, his pearl of the world. How could he? In those days, he still had hope that Katherine might yet have a son. Court had, as a whole, been younger and far more carefree. Wolsey had run the kingdom; Henry had been free to pursue his fun.

Now he had a son at last, however. Prince Harry would soon go to Hatfield to live with his sister until he grew big enough to have a household of his own. Someday, perhaps, there would be more boys to follow him. Until then, his father was free to worry about other matters.

Mary. He had little desire to see his eldest child executed, nor did he think the people would react well to such an order. Besides, he knew how fond even Elizabeth was of her half-sister. He must find a way to sway her. If she continued to insist that she was the rightful heir to Henry's throne, some might join her cause in the name of poor maligned Queen Katherine and the Roman Church. Some of his people could even rise up in revolt against the King and in favor of Mary's claim. He could never allow such chaos—his father had pulled England out of civil war and into civilization. Henry would not allow his daughter to drag it back into strife. No, she must sign the Oath and accept that God had never seen the union of her parents as a valid one.

The true challenge was how to do so. Blinded by grief and pride, Mary had refused to see the truth, even when it came from her friends. She could not be bullied or even forced into submission, at least not in the usual ways, and Henry would certainly not put a child of his, even a bastard, on the rack. Some other, gentler means of persuasion must be necessary.

With some advice from his wife, he thought he had found a way at last.

"Ah, Mr. Cromwell!"

His Chancellor entered the audience hall with a dark expression upon his face. Cromwell, to his surprise and delight, had become a far more efficient and effective servant since Anne's imprisonment; he was clearly still unsure whether the King had forgiven him. Perhaps he had not. Either way, he enjoyed the new Cromwell quite a lot and benefited greatly from his service. He had gladly sent Cromwell to negotiate with his disobedient daughter this time around.

"Your Majesty…"

"How did you find my daughter, Mr. Cromwell?" he asked, standing up despite the protests of his leg.

"Majesty…"

Cromwell shifted his weight. He would not meet Henry's gaze. He seemed nervous, even frightened. Mary had refused, then.

She would not get a better offer from him, the stubborn girl! What more did she expect? She was a proud bastard girl, and even a King's bastard was only worth so much. He and Anne had decided to promise her marriage—though her bridegroom would, of course, have to be a dedicated Protestant and utterly loyal to the Queen and her children—and a peaceful life away from court if only she would sign the Oath and accept her reduced status. Such bribery was the last resort to spare Mary from the fate that awaited her if she insisted on remaining a traitor.

"Damn it, man, tell me!" Henry had not intended to sound so angry, but Mary's insolence drove him nearly mad. Once, he had tolerated it because she was his daughter, his pearl, but now it had become something ugly and utterly intolerable.

Cromwell cleared his throat. "I was unable to speak to the Lady Mary, sire. They could not find her, you see." Even before he had finished saying this, he flinched, as if anticipating the reaction.

Color crept into Henry's face slowly as he processed the words. "Who could not find her, Mr. Cromwell?" His voice was soft and low; it was a dangerous voice, on the brink of the anger he'd only hinted at a few moments before. He saw the recognition of that danger—and the fear of it—in Cromwell's eyes. Part of him was afraid, too. What had become of Mary? People locked in the Tower did not simply disappear.

"It seems, sire, that the Lady Mary and her attendants have…_escaped, _sire."

Impossible! Henry knew such a thing to be impossible; he had been to the Tower a fair number of times himself, and knew none of the guards would risk the accusation of torture falling upon their own heads for the sake of a prisoner, even if the prisoner was the King's own daughter who still called herself the Princess of Wales. How, then? Mary had no money with which to bribe them, nor any way to contact the world beyond the rooms in which she had been imprisoned. All these things Henry knew, yet Mary had vanished, escaped, from under his very nose. The girl had sympathetic folk waiting to open their doors to her throughout the countryside, especially in the North…

But perhaps even Mary could see the foolishness in remaining in England. Perhaps…

The King's eyes blue flashed—suddenly, he saw how the impossible could have become reality. He knew who to question…who to torture, if need be. Anything not to look a fool; he had already been made a fool by Mary's mother once too often.

"Bring me that snake Chapuys," he growled.

**Calais, France**

While their ship docked in the harbor, the hooded figure of a young woman stood beside a taller man, also cloaked. Each gazed back upon the distant shore; one was glad to be gone. The other wondered if she would ever see the land that had been her home these past seventeen years again. But she would rather stand upon French soil than be executed in her homeland. God had guided her safely out of her prison and out of London, and finally here. She was merely a pauper, and until she was safely in the custody of her cousin the Emperor, Mary Tudor intended to remain that way. She spoke fluent enough French to pass as a French country girl. After that, when they crossed the border into her mother's native land, she would become the daughter of a traveling merchant until she came, at last, to the bosom of her family—her _true_ family.

One day, yes, she would return to England. She kept assuring herself of that as though it would make it true. If the Lord had brought her this far, he surely had a higher purpose for her. he would not let her die a so-called traitor; he would elevate her to the throne of England when she had Spanish forces at her beck and call. She closed her eyes and could see it clearly. The Lord would raise her up and return her to her rightful place so that she could restore the English people to the embrace of the True Church…

By now, her father must know of her escape. Drugged mead and gold coins could not keep the secret forever. She wondered at his reaction. Was he relieved, just a little, that he would not have to execute his own child? Was he searching for her even now, or merely looking for people he could punish? Mary knew nothing about her father anymore. She had only a child's rosy memories, now tainted by the cruel reality of a motherless adolescence.

"I am glad you came with me, Your Eminence," she said softly. She tore her eyes away from the English coast and tilted her head up slightly so that she could see Eustace Chapuys' face. He had been a good friend to her mother, and also to her; indeed, he had proven to be her salvation. Though she had been angry with him for trying to make her sign the Oath, she was now grateful for his help; she owed him her life and would forever be in his debt. A heady tonic, relying on someone else to keep living—but worth it, she thought.

He smiled down at her, though his eyes appeared stormy. She had already thanked him a dozen times, but the word seemed so empty beside the reality. He had rescued her.

"You have been more of a father to me these past ten years than the King could ever have been." Mary had not expected to say such a thing, even if she had thought it often, and her cheeks colored. His smile grew a little, however, and he reached out to pat her hand affectionately with his own.

The silence made it perfectly clear that he had little interest in talking at the moment, yet Mary could not keep silent. She had so many things to thank him for—she had so many fears, so many hopes… Now that she was free of her father's tyranny and heresy, her whole life was before her. Perhaps she would even marry a handsome Spanish prince who would love her as her mother had once been loved by her father. Marriage had been a dream for some years for Mary; marriage and motherhood. And now, it seemed like a real possibility.

She leaned against the side of the ship, staring down into the waters which foamed slightly beneath them. "Will the Emperor punish you for helping me?"

"This will certainly be a…diplomatic headache for him, my lady," Chapuys replied; she heard no fear in his voice. It set her at ease. Even if Charles expressed anger with his ambassador, she would plead for mercy. Surely he would grant it for her sake. "But he will be overjoyed to see his beloved cousin is alive and well, and that she is safe."

Charles, she supposed, must feel guilty for what had happened to his aunt. He must have heard of her death, the desolation in which she lived the last months of her life; he must know that the King was bewitched to break with the Church and take a woman like Boleyn as his wife, casting aside her own saintly mother who had never done him any wrong other than failing to bear him a male heir. That she had not, however, only strengthened Mary's conviction that God had meant for her, not Anne Boleyn's son, to inherit the throne of England. With each step she took away from English soil, the plan became clearer to her. It excited her, though she knew the road back to her homeland would be fraught with peril. With the love of her imperial cousins and the husband she dreamed of finding in Spain, however, she knew nothing was impossible.

She took a deep breath of the fresh sea air and smiled. It felt like the first true smile that had graced her pretty face in many years. True, they had not yet reached Spain, and she may yet be dragged back to England and thrown in the Tower once more, but for today, she was alive and free.

"I very much look forward to being reunited with my mother's kin, and I shall do everything in my power to please the Emperor, who has always been good to us," she murmured.

But the time for political talk had ended; the ship had finally docked. The gangplank had been pulled out, and the cry came for passengers and crew to go ashore. Mary's smile grew into a grin. She had not been to France since she was small. In that moment, she was not an English fugitive, nor a disowned Princess; she was merely an excited girl going on a bit of an adventure.

And no matter what happened afterwards, she knew that would have the taste of freedom in her heart forever.

* * *

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